“She’s bisex, I know it,” he muttered. “But inconveniently devoted to her wives.”
“Devoted, yes,” Kitty Splendour said, stepping through the cabin door and letting it lock behind her. “Bisex, no.”
“You’re preparing for warp transit and you feel the need to come to my cabin and tell me you’re samesex?”
“Paloma and Amaka can handle the jump without me,” she said. “And that’s not what I came to tell you.”
She pressed herself against him.
When their lips finally parted, Bhamu gazed deeply into her eyes and whispered:
“Why is an opposex woman in a samesex marriage?”
“Haven’t you heard of a marriage of convenience?” Kitty Splendour responded. “I told you women couldn’t work for Glascock unless they weren’t interested in men. Paloma and Amaka aren’t interested in men. But all three of us were out of work, and we’re lifelong friends, and Glascock had openings in our fields. They added me to their marriage and we got the jobs.”
“Splendid,” Jangano Bhamu said, and pressed his lips to hers.
DJANGO UNPLUGGED
A T.A.S.K. STORY
Hannibal Tabu
T.A.S.K. created by Damion Gonzales, Zak Farmer and Conliffe Matthew
For what felt like the thousandth time, Django’s bare feet sloshed through cold, viscous sewage and he shuddered at what lie hidden. The dim illumination from shattered streets above and maintenance lights along the walls followed him, reluctantly, as if wanting no part of St. Louis’ municipal underbelly. In a distance, he heard the pounding of ham-sized fists on unforgiving stone and the crash of load-bearing walls. Grimly, Django gritted his teeth and trudged forward, the fate of the world in his hands.
* * *
Hours earlier, thunderous applause followed the brightly clad hero Django as he walked off stage after giving a well-crafted keynote speech at Casa Central’s Anniversary Annual Awards Dinner. He walked down the steps, his bare feet padding softly as he went, shaking hands with the mayor of Chicago and other well-wishers and carrying a trophy honoring his status as an “icon of racial harmony and ideals.”
Django – well accustomed to the fawning and adulation of masses – smiled graciously as he shook hands, waved and accepted random hugs from adherents. His jovial mood switched when he saw the stoic form of John Henry near the green room door, arms crossed and wearing an expression like a summer storm, sudden and unforgiving.
Django extricated himself from the crowds and followed Henry into the green room. Even after six months as T.A.S.K.’s representative from two “divine” houses, alien powers revered as gods by many human populations, Django still felt nervous around the organization’s leader, a mortal in name only, with powers imbued by the planet itself matching his peerless valor and reputation.
“Did you see any of the speech?” Django opened conversationally, sitting down to grab a bottled water.
“I caught a lot of it, yes,” Henry replied, still standing. “Meridian told me you’d asked him for help with it, but I barely even noticed any of his work there. Your flourishes and style, however, were very effective. You had the crowd eating out of your hand.”
Django looked down smiling – he appreciated Henry’s praise more than any of the hoi polloi outside the door. “That’s kind, thank you. The good doctor gave me the idea to use what he called a ‘framing device,’ but yes, most of it was the rhythm and cadence of my grandfather’s voice.”
Getting serious, Henry said, “I wish I was here to enjoy the expensive eats. T.A.S.K. needs your help, Django.”
Django furrowed his brows – for Henry to be delivering this message must imply great severity. “What can I do?” he asked earnestly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
“Our old friend Legacy has discovered that a very important piece of technology has been hidden under the city of St. Louis for thousands of years,” Henry began. “We need you to retrieve it before Legacy’s people do, but there are…let’s just say this won’t be an easy mission. There’s a Tempest waiting for you on the roof, can you come now?”
Django stood and nodded. “I can text my people from the air, yessir.”
Django followed Henry’s steadfast steps to a nearby elevator, which was waiting. As they ascended the entirety of the skyscraper, passing through the residential areas after clearing the hotel section, Henry said, “This will require you to work with people, maybe even put your ego in check. I believe you aren’t the hothead the media makes you out to be. Can you prove me right?”
Django hid his nervousness and nodded solemnly as the elevator came to a stop.
Henry walked confidently out, unflappable, up the ramp into the waiting transport – a sleek slice of the future on nearly silent compressed air jets, hovering above the building with a ramp placidly ready to receive.
Django wondered as the JSOC pilot ignored John Henry, seated opposite, while checking straps on Django for security. I know he’s durable, but so am I… Django wondered.
Once the ramp was up and they began moving above the clouds, John Henry continued. “We are stretched thin with active duty response teams addressing crises in multiple locations. A nuclear threat in Sri Lanka, disaster relief in North Carolina, volcanic fallout in Iceland, mutant monsters in Tasmania and an ecological catastrophe off the coast of Somalia. You’re the least committed person closest to this new challenge, because it’s your day off.”
Django chuckled. “Where I’m from, we don’t get days off. What’s the mission?”
Henry smirked and replied, “I’d love to give you more detail but…” and then Henry’s face dissolved in a cloud of static before continuing, “…into Jaffna now. Glitch will fill you in and…”
Suddenly, Henry was gone, as though he had never been there. Django frowned, glancing around the suddenly empty cabin, made to carry up to 10 people and any attendant equipment. Django sighed and slid one of the digital workbenches from the wall – a fold out desk with a holographic keyboard and display – so he could email his assistant Gabriela about the change in his itinerary.
He’d been watching a “page loading” indicator for perhaps thirty seconds when the lithe young figure of the team’s techno-savant Glitch appeared on the seat across from him. He glanced at her, seeing her gaze focused on something to Django’s right, tapping away at a space she treated like a keyboard, but he could see nothing there. Another hologram… he surmised.
After a moment, Django asked, “Glitch?”
She briefly glanced his way and replied, “Oh, hi! Django, why would I have you on my… oh, I contacted you because the big guy is in the middle of the Pacific and didn’t finish telling you how to save the world. Right, I remember what you need now, just one… sec…”
Django fumed, sucking in a sudden breath. “Look, I got pulled out of a favor for my grandfather and if John Henry can’t deal with me himself…”
“Hold that thought, El DeBarge…” Glitch interrupted distractedly. “Just… gotta… there! Okay, I just stopped Bosnian hackers from bankrupting the EU and throwing the world economy into chaos. Now, what’s your whiny holdup?”
With a frown, Django gritted his teeth and focused on business. “What is the mission?” he managed.
Glitch seemed to ignore his expression, still distracted by things he couldn’t see. “Hang on, an anarchist data collective is trying to black out Manhattan for the third time today… gotta retask satellites to get eyes on Tasmania, now… oh, you, St. Louis, right. Can I assume you know something about your family history and understand the term ‘Liume?’”
Reining in his rising anger at this annoying child, Django simply said, “Yes.”
“Sweet,” she continued, barely pausing to register his reply. “The Liume genius Kao designed something hundreds of thousands of years ago to hide Earth from a transdimensional threat even he feared…”
“The Burning Tide,” Django interrupted. “The boogeymen haunting children of my kind.”
>
“Sure, whatever,” Glitch went on, typing furiously. “Anyway, Kao put it in the most boring place he could find at the time, made a note in case he ever had to fix it, then forgot about it. Now, his wackjob former apprentice Legacy found the note and figured he could take a shortcut to his nihilist wet dream and invite some dinner guests who have zero manners, you feel me?”
Django sat silently.
“I’ll take that as tacit assent,” Glitch continued, unabated. “That dull spot now has the city of St. Louis on top of it, and Legacy sent that stooge Royce…”
Django chortled. “Barely a test for my powers…”
“If you’ll let me finish, early 90’s Bishop,” Glitch said testily, “…and somehow figured out how to duplicate that psycho two dozen times. Now there’s a platoon of him, destroying the sewers, caving in streets, waking babies from their naps and generally making stuff awful. You have to get the Liume cloaking device back to T.A.S.K. HQ before the Royces destroy it and doom us all.”
“What does the device look like?” Django asked thoughtfully.
“Nobody knows,” Glitch fired off, her attention wandering again. “Next question!”
“How can I find this thing?”
“No idea, but if the Royces have a way, you have to be smarter than them.” After a pause she looked directly at him and asked, “Right?”
Django’s hands crunched the edges of the workbench. He closed his eyes, saying nothing. After a while, he said, “When do I get there?”
Glitch pulled an apple from seemingly nowhere and took a bite. “You’ve been hovering over the first responder triage center for thirty seconds,” she said through munching. “I’m surprised we’re still talking about this…”
He rolled his eyes and stood up. “Please contact my assistant and tell her I have to miss the fundraiser in LA.” Without another word, Django disappeared in a flash of lightning.
Appearing in a flash of lightning below, Django began, “Could anyone please direct me to…”
“Are you out of your ever loving mind?” a bellowing voice from behind Django yelled.
He turned to see a blustery, overweight police lieutenant in an incongruous white and orange hard hat barreling towards him to waggle an index finger angrily. “We have gas leaks everywhere; you’re likely to blow up the whole damned thing!”
Django took a deep breath, ignoring the hundreds of ways he could murder this small man, and remembered John Henry’s admonition. “I’m sorry,” Django said slowly, getting past how he’d let that teenaged technophile get under his skin again. “I didn’t get a lot of information before I got here. Can we start fresh? I’m Django, from T.A.S.K., and I’m here to help.”
The cop, hands on his hips, narrowed his eyes at Django before softening. Sticking out a hand he said, “Lieutenant Jack Callahan, St. Louis PD. Thanks for rushing out here. Follow me. I can show you what we know…”
Django nodded and followed Callahan into a hastily constructed mobile headquarters – a bank of communications equipment and computers on folding tables under an impromptu canopy tent. “We’ve got IR on 25 moving targets,” Callahan explained. “The file said this guy was just strong and healed fast, this duplicate thing is new.”
“That’s why they sent me,” Django said, leaning in to look at the screens. “You said something about a gas leak?”
Callahan nodded. “One of the first things they smashed. The whole sewer system is flooded with natural gas. We’re trying to evacuate the area, but it’s slow going.”
Django frowned. “I can’t teleport, then. That takes lightning. Hm.”
“Sorry,” Callahan shrugged. “Why is he down there tearing up everything?”
Django considered this and decided to be straight with the man. “Underneath your city is an ancient artifact that’s protected the world from alien invasion. If Royce down there finds it, we’re all in danger.”
Callahan blanched, gulping audibly. “Wow.”
Django spared Callahan a considerate glance before asking, “Can you guide me if I go down there? I can’t see carrying a tablet…”
The lieutenant straightened up, saying, “Ah! That I know about, one sec…”
Callahan reached under a table and pulled out a large black case. Unlatching it, he rummaged around until he pulled out a transparent bead the size of a pea. “We use these in hostage situations; new military issue stuff. Mic is inside of it, and it’s lightly adhesive to stay in your ear. Give ‘er a shot …”
Regarding the device oddly, Django took the small transceiver and placed it in his left ear. Callahan pulled a small microphone from the case and whispered into it, which Django heard clearly as, “Do you read me?”
“Will wonders never cease?” Django pondered, fidgeting with the tight fit.
“Not with people like you on hand to help,” Callahan admitted. “Okay, lemme walk you out…”
As they walked out, a short uniformed female police sergeant, with her cap pulled over her short dreadlocks, approached carrying a disposable cell phone. “Lou, I…I think this call is for him,” she said.
“Thanks, Mary,” Callahan said, taking the phone from her. He looked at it oddly as she walked off.
“I’ll take it, go on ahead,” Django said, taking the small piece of plastic in his large hands.
“Can you hear me, grandson?” a kindly old voice came through the phone.
Django was startled to hear the serpentine voice of his grandsire Quetzalcoatl coming through a modern device. “Yes, my lord,” Django said, his voice suddenly humble. “This is a surprise. I was just about to…”
“You were just about to head under the ground, to the realm of dirt and serpents,” Quetzalcoatl chuckled. “I know much about what your day will be like. Just know this will be a test of your resilience, son of my daughter. Take your time, use all your powers smartly, and know I believe in you.”
Django pulled the phone away and wondered at it, appreciating the gesture of having a god believe in you. “Wow,” he managed. “Thank you, grandfather, I…”
“I would love to have a good long chat with you,” Quetzalcoatl interrupted, “but you have a lot to do and Jim Richards will be walking up behind you. Good luck, and please turn to your right to hand him the phone.”
Django turned and noted a fireman in full safety gear walking up, the name RICHARDS emblazoned across his hat. “Excuse me,” Django said, unsure, “Are you Jim Richards?”
The man – two days of salt and pepper stubble on his face, eyes sunken and body covered in soot – raised an eyebrow at Django before saying, “Yeeessss…”
Django handed him the phone and said, “I don’t know what is happening or why, but this is for you…”
Richards wondered at the phone – a simple purplish plastic candy bar – and took it from Django. “…thank you, then,” Richards said simply, put the phone to his ear and continued on his way.
Django caught up to Callahan a few feet away, looking down into a massive sinkhole with frayed pipes and rebar extending from shattered asphalt. “This section collapsed when one of these guys smashed through a load bearing section of the sewer,” Callahan explained. “Spots like this all over town. There’s one about 40 yards north of here, but it ain’t pretty down there.
He looked at Django – dressed in a tight red leotard with white lightning bolts across its surface, golden bracers around his ankles and wrists and bare feet – and said, “I could, uh, get you a hazmat suit, maybe some boots…”
Django waived Callahan off. “Just slow me down. Thank you, lieutenant. Pray to whatever god you honor for good fortune!”
Without another word, Django jumped down into the brackish water and started walking north, under the city streets.
* * *
Hundreds of feet away, the hulking figure of Royce plodded along through trash and human waste, glancing occasionally at the bracelet on his arm, pulsing with an otherworldly glow. He almost had to stoop to fit through the gray-gree
n moss-bedecked walls of the claustrophobic sewer tunnels, grunting to himself as he went.
Taking a right at a corner, he glanced up to see an exact replica of himself, down to the bracelet, staring back at him.
“Oi!” the first Royce cried out.
“Oi!” his doppelganger replied.
“This is my bleedin’ search pattern!” the first one growled.
“It bloody well is not!” the second returned. “You’re… hell, which one are you?”
The first pondered this a moment and said, “16! Legacy said I was ‘Royse 16’ when we went through ‘is funny machine.”
“Oi, then,” the second said, pulling a grubby and battered piece of paper from a back pocket. “Says right ‘ere, ‘Royse 16 covers Junction 243, marker 9 to Junction 256, marker 12!”
“All right, wot?” Royse 16 asked.
The second Royce pointed at a grimy bronzed plaque, barely visible in the dim illumination of emergency lights. The plaque read, “Junction 237, Marker 19.”
“…oh…” Royce 16 said, hanging his head low.
Cursing and stuffing the paper back in his pocket, the second Royce said, “Legacy tells me, ‘I can make two dozen of you, but only once and only for a day,’ I figger, ‘This’ll be an orgy of mayhem the likes of which the world’s never bloody seen! Is this a feckin’ orgy of mayhem, 16?”
Before the hapless clone could answer, the second Royce continued. “No it’s not! Everybody else from the Factory gets to blow stuff up and fight ‘eroes, and I’m under this stupid city lookin’ for a bloody magic rock with two dozen morons too stupid to follow a search pattern!”
16 furrowed his brow. “If we’re all you, then doesn’t that mean…”
“I know what it bloody well means!” the second Royce bellowed. “I’m down ‘ere talking to myself! Turn around and get back to your grid, you poncy tosser!”
Black Power- The Superhero Anthology Page 20