Wanted: A Superhero to Save the World

by Bryan Davis

  “It’s like this. Chet Graham has a three-dimensional model of Gilbert, and he projects it as a computer-driven hologram whenever he wants to show Mephisto to people. When we were at the Dead Zone, Graham used this room as a background. With all the birds flying around, it looked real. I suppose he has Gilbert’s voice print, too, so he can make his Mephisto model say anything he wants.”

  “What if Gilbert walks into the background while Graham is projecting?” Mom asked.

  Gilbert adjusted the gamma dial, one eye closed. “If I am in this room, I am always at my workstation, unless I’m winding the clock, which takes only a few seconds, and I wind it only on Thursday afternoons at precisely five p.m.”

  Sam grinned. “So Mephisto isn’t real. I knew it.”

  “Don’t be smug.” I tousled her hair. “Your head might explode.”

  Gilbert snorted. “Please, no exploding heads. My own head is ready to pop because that scoundrel has been using me for his nefarious purposes, and I don’t want splattered brains littering my lab.”

  Mom rubbed my shoulder. “So what’s the next step, superhero?”

  “Stop the earthquake.” I focused on Gilbert. “Did you ever invent a machine that causes earthquakes?”

  He glared at me. “Heavens, no. Who in his right mind would want to do that?”

  “Someone did. We had a few quakes in Nirvana, and Graham said someone stole his machine and used it to create the quakes.”

  “I did invent a machine that excites fault lines in a localized area in order to discover a way to minimize their damage. It was meant to detect shifts in advance so we could send warnings to those in danger. But such a tremor can hardly be called an earthquake. The experimental area is small, exactly the size of the field between this building and the neighboring swamp.”

  “Where is the experimental area?”

  He nodded toward the front of the building. “The field between this building and the neighboring swamp. Remember, I said exactly.”

  “Oh. Right.” I looked that way. “I saw a rod sticking up from the ground with four other rods attached. Is that the machine?”

  “That is an antenna that allows for long-distance remote control. The device itself is underground.”

  “How does it work?”

  “It sends a hypersonic signal to the underlying fault, which causes a minor shift, and the movement creates a tremor. But, as I indicated, since the fault is tiny and local, it cannot be felt outside of this immediate area. It is for research purposes only.”

  “Then how could the quakes in Nirvana happen? They were pretty big.”

  “A big quake can occur only if there is a significant fault under the city, but I’m not sure if Nirvana has such a fault.”

  “Can your device create a fault?”

  Gilbert bent his brow. “Young man, are you suggesting the quakes are my fault?”

  “No, I was wondering if your tremor device created a fault.”

  “If there is a fault under Nirvana, it certainly isn’t my fault.”

  “Then whose fault is it?

  “Isn’t Nirvana your city?”

  “Yes. I live there.”

  “Then it is your fault.”

  I pointed at myself. “I don’t have a fault.”

  “No faults? Then you are a better man than I.”

  “No, I’m saying that Nirvana’s fault isn’t my fault. I didn’t put it there. Someone else did.”

  Gilbert blinked. “Oh … well … why didn’t you say so?”

  I huffed a loud sigh. “I did say so. I just —”

  Mom tapped my shoulder. “It’s all right, Eddie. Let’s figure out how Graham’s using the device to make earthquakes.”

  I looked Gilbert in the eye. “Is it possible to use your invention to shift a fault under Nirvana and start an earthquake?”

  Gilbert stroked his chin. “If the device’s hypersonic signal could be transmitted close to the fault, then perhaps.”

  “What would it take to do that?”

  “Oh, it would be tricky, I think, but it is possible. I duplicated the prototype, and the duplicate is portable, though because of its internal antenna, the remote must be within a mile of the device. Also, it would have to be embedded and anchored far under the city, which would require an excavation of mammoth proportions. The city officials would certainly be aware of such a project.”

  “Unless the person digging the huge hole had a magna-gopher.”

  “A magna-gopher?” Gilbert blinked. “Odd that you should use that terminology. I invented a digger for our project here that I called a robotic gopher — powerful, precise, and …” He looked at me. “Can you think of a p word that works as an appropriate adjective? I enjoy alliterating in triplets.”

  “Portable?”

  “Perfect. In any case, after we finished embedding the prototype transmitter here, I don’t know what Graham did with the gopher. Do you?”

  I nodded. “I think he parked it under the Stellar building in Nirvana and dug a deep hole to embed your duplicate hypersonic signaler.”

  “There is one certain way to find out.” Gilbert rose from his stool and inserted his arms into his wings as if putting on sleeves.

  “Why do you wear that bird suit?” Sam asked.

  “To fly, of course.” He walked to the window, opened it, and crouched on the sill. “You are welcome to follow me. I have spare sets of wings around here somewhere, but you might prefer going on foot.” He leaped and, flapping his wings, disappeared from view.

  I ran to the window. Gilbert flew about eight feet above the ground, his legs dangling awkwardly. As he made a wide turn, he appeared to be heading toward the front of the building where I had seen the antenna. After a few seconds, though, he crashed in a muddy bog and slid face first through the wet turf.

  Chapter 20

  Will the Real Mephisto Please Stand Up?

  “He crashed.” I looked at the ground — at least a six-foot jump down from the sill. Sam would never make it. “Mom, you and Sam head for the front door. I’ll meet you outside. I gotta check on Gilbert.”

  Mom scooped Sam into her arms. “On our way.”

  I leaped out the window and landed with knees bent to absorb the impact. In a dead run, I crossed a wet field to Gilbert’s crash site. He sat up, brushing mud from his face, his arms no longer inside his wings.

  When I arrived, he spat out a glob of black mud and smiled. “A great success, if I do say so myself.”

  “Success? You flew like a dodo bird.”

  “Of course it was a success. It was my longest flight to date. It was terrific. It was tremendous. It was … ”

  “Triumphant?”

  He grimaced. “No. Terrifying.”

  I grabbed Gilbert’s arm and helped him to his feet. We walked around the building, slowed by his frequent stops — once to take off his shoes, dump out some mud, and put them back on; once to fold his wings and tuck them under his arm; and twice to brush more mud from his clothes.

  When we arrived at the front of the building, I scanned the field for Mom and Sam, but they were nowhere in sight. “Gilbert, I’ll be right back.” I grabbed the razor pistol from my belt, jogged to the front door, and stepped inside, calling, “Mom? Sam?”

  My voice echoed in the huge lobby. I looked out to the yard. Gilbert knelt at the antenna next to an open trapdoor about the size of a car’s glove compartment, his hands out of view below the door, probably working with something underground.

  I glanced at the hallways leading to the left and right, both vacant. Did Graham capture Mom and Sam? If so, since he needed me to contact Damocles, he probably wouldn’t hurt them until he had me in his clutches. That meant I couldn’t afford to look around and get caught in an ambush. Somehow I had to rescue them another way, but how?

  I closed the d
oor and jogged to Gilbert. “Is there a secret passage to get inside?”

  He glanced past me, then answered in a whisper of his own. “Ah. Your familial companions should have come out by now, and you wish to rescue them, but I know of no secret entry.” He looked toward the swamp. “I see tread marks. Mr. Graham must have arrived in the swamp crosser. It is an amphibious tank. It is quick, quiet, and …”

  “Quake-proof?”

  “Quagmire-proof. That’s why it’s perfect for driving through the swamp. He likely parked it in the back, saw your relations when he entered, and captured them.”

  “We could shake him up. That would give me a chance to get inside to help them.” I nodded toward the antenna. “Is there any way we can generate a local quake? Enough to rattle the building?”

  “Yes, the original hypersonic transmitter is still down there, which means that Mr. Graham is using the duplicate.”

  “Can you trigger the quake from here?

  Gilbert shook his head. “Only the remote can trigger it. It would be foolish to trigger a quake while standing at the epicenter.”

  “Where is the remote? I could hide at your office window and start the quake from there.”

  “It’s supposed to be here, so Mr. Graham must have taken it, proving that his intentions are disreputable, disgraceful, and despicable. But I have a spare in my office. It has fewer features, but it is functional.”

  “Will the spare remote work with the duplicate earthquake device?”

  “No. The spare remote’s frequency is locked on the prototype device here. The main remote can operate either the prototype device or the duplicate.”

  “So to get the spare remote, I need to find a way inside without anyone seeing me.” I shook my head. “I’m back to the same problem. I need to come up with a different distraction.” I eyed the tread marks leading from the edge of the swamp to around the building. “Is the swamp tank easy to drive?”

  “Quite easy. The controls are standard, straightforward, and simple.”

  I imagined myself driving the tank, though I wasn’t sure what it looked like. “I’ll guide it toward the swamp, jump out, and run to your office window. That should distract Graham long enough for me to get inside and find my mother and Sam.”

  “Finding them is one challenge. Actually rescuing them is another. Mr. Graham is not likely to simply hand them over. Since he usually travels with a muscular bodyguard who will likely be holding them, you will not be able to wrestle them away.”

  “Good point. Let’s go ahead with the quake idea as a second distraction. I’ll use the first one to get the remote.”

  Gilbert rubbed his hands together. “This should be a fascinating sequence of events. I will prepare the quake’s direction and intensity from here. When you find the remote, just press the activate button and be ready for a sharp, shattering shake.”

  “Where in your office should I look?”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “It could take hours to find it.”

  “Not so.” From his pants pocket, he withdrew a metallic wafer that looked like a small steel cookie. “I often lose remotes, so I invented this locater. Just push the button, and a light will blink faster and faster as you get closer to the remote. It works with the original controller or the spare.”

  “That’ll help.” I took the locator and slid it into my pocket. “What would you do if you lost the locator?”

  “I would have to invent a locator locator and then perhaps a locator locator locator. As you can imagine, such a string of locators would soon become unmanageable.”

  “Okay. Let’s get this started.” I ran around the building toward the side I hadn’t seen yet. When I got almost halfway, I came upon a machine that looked like a head-high miniature tank with a two-person seat on top. A hinged glass hatch stood open over the seat, ready to close on top of the passengers and keep them dry in the swamp.

  Grabbing a handhold bracket on the side, I climbed up, hopped into the seat, and read the controls — a close-hatch button, a start/stop button, a forward/reverse/neutral switch, and a steering wheel. No problem.

  After lowering the glass shield over my head, I pushed the start button. A quiet hum emanated from an engine below. Too quiet. I needed to do something to attract attention.

  I flipped the switch to forward. The tank’s big treads lurched and dug into the soft turf. As I steered it around the building and came into view of the front door, I tried to peek inside. No sign of movement anywhere.

  Distraction time. I steered the tank toward the building’s corner and rammed into it. The corner crunched as the metallic beast took out a huge chunk of wood. A gutter fell, and part of the roof sagged.

  I shifted to reverse, backed away from the damage, and switched to forward again. As I rolled over the field between the swamp and the building, the front door flew open. A dark-haired muscular man dressed in military fatigues charged outside and sprinted toward me, shouting, “Stop!”

  Judging by his speed and my distance to the swamp, he would catch me before I got there. No way did I want to get into a fight with this guy.

  I opened the glass shield and jumped to the ground. The tank rumbled on. With a burst of speed, I ran toward the building, but the big thug dove at my legs, grabbed my ankles, and tackled me. I flopped to the muddy ground and tried to scramble away on all fours, but his vise-like hand stayed locked on my ankle.

  As he rose to his feet, he lifted me high with one hand. I dangled upside down and swayed while facing him.

  I shouted in a little kid’s voice. “That tank thing is headed for the swamp. I left the hatch open, so it’s gonna get flooded.”

  When he looked toward the swamp, his eyes flared. He dropped me and ran. I held out my hands, keeping my head from hitting the ground first, but the smack hurt my palms.

  I scrambled to my feet and ran to the back of the building, wiping grass and mud from my face along the way. When I reached the window to Gilbert’s office, I threw the claw into the opening, drew the line tight, and climbed in.

  After auto-reeling the line, I withdrew the remote finder and looked over its features — an on-off button on one side and a tiny LED light on the other. When I pushed the button, the light blinked red about once each second.

  I looked at Gilbert’s worktable where my superhero device sat, now fully assembled. As I walked toward the table, the light blinked faster. I honed in on a drawer at one end of the table and opened it. Papers overflowed from inside, each one covered with scribbled drawings and mathematical equations. The light blinked like crazy.

  While birds flitted here and there, I grabbed handfuls of paper and tossed them to the floor. A gray parrot landed on my shoulder and squawked about maddening, militant mosquitoes, but I tuned it out and continued hunting.

  When I cleared the last piece of paper, a roundish black object no bigger than a key fob appeared at the bottom. I scooped it up and looked it over. A single red toggle switch displayed two labeled settings — on and off.

  I slid it and the locator into my pocket, grabbed the razor pistol from my belt, and crept toward the office door. The moment I turned the knob, the door burst open. The muscular thug thundered in, making me backpedal. I shot at him, squeezing the trigger again and again. A razor disk sliced into his chest. Another grazed his chin. A third missed and stuck in a wall.

  My next trigger pull resulted in a dull click. No more disks.

  Roaring, the thug slapped the gun away. With a backswing, he hammered me across the cheek with his knuckles.

  I stumbled and dropped to my bottom. Pain ripped through my skull. Spots blurred my vision. But I couldn’t pass out. Not now. I had to keep my head clear. Letting out a groan, I slid the knife sheath on my belt around to the back, hoping he wouldn’t see it.

  Behind the thug, Mom and Sam sta
ggered into the room, pushed by Chet Graham at the point of a gun. Sam tripped over her own feet and tumbled to the floor next to me.

  Whimpering, she grasped her ankle and whined, “Princess Queenie Unicorn Iris Ponyrider Buttercup Olive Lover Rosey Is Posey … is not happy.”

  Covering his bleeding chin, the thug jerked the razor from his chest and threw it out the window. He grabbed Mom’s arm and shoved her to the floor with Sam and me. She fell to her bottom and pulled Sam close to her side. A nasty bruise painted Mom’s forehead purple.

  “They ambushed us,” she whispered. “The smaller guy took my gun and bashed me in the head with it. I’m feeling really dizzy.”

  I leaned close. “That’s Chet Graham. Just play it cool. I have a plan.”

  Graham aimed the gun at us and barked, “Where is Damocles?”

  I glared at him. “How should I know? I’m just a kid. Why should he tell me where he is all the time?”

  “Stop pretending, Eddie. I figured out that you’re some kind of genius, and you invented a superhero generator that copies Damocles’s powers. Now you and he are partners trying to create an army of superheroes. He wouldn’t stray far without letting you know where to find him.”

  I sneered. “Shows how much you know. I have no idea where he is.”

  He gave me an I-don’t-believe-a-word-you’re-saying kind of smile. “All right. Then tell me why you’re here instead of Damocles.”

  “I’m trying to stop the earthquake, of course.”

  “Mephisto told you how to stop it. He must be paid a billion dollars.”

  “Just cut the acting. I know you’re behind the earthquakes. Mephisto doesn’t even exist.”

  “Doesn’t exist?” Graham laughed under his breath. “You have no idea what’s going on behind the scenes. I’m just trying to be a go-between and deliver the ransom for the sake of our city.”

  I crossed my arms in front. For now, it might help to play along with his game. “Well, I don’t have a billion dollars, and Damocles isn’t here. What’s your next move?”

  He looked at the superhero device on the workstation. “I see you brought your invention.”