by Mark Gardner
The man stammered when he tried to show Globe the graphs on his tablet. Globe just pushed it away from his sweaty hands.
The assistant tried again. “Sir, I-I wouldn’t call it any other way. It was a miscalculation perhaps, o-or a malfunction, but definitely an a-accident. We uh, we need something—”
“Something?” Globe hissed.
The assistant hesitated, his eyes nervously darting searching for an escape. “A replacement of sorts. Something o-or someone with s-similar power levels to replace the subject until we have him back at f-full power.”
The words resonated in Globe’s mind. A boost, Peter needed a boost. It was a novel idea. And so simple, too. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? He needed someone with a similar, but not necessarily identical, ability. He needed someone whose power was just resurfacing, fresh and untainted. He knew of someone just like that.
He needed to find Joaquin.
Globe smiled and nodded more to himself than to the man who took it as an opportunity and a blessing to leave. Globe made his way through the debris of his display of childish frustration to stand in front of Kristof’s tank.
It wasn’t an accident, he scoffed. Then, It could not have been. He allowed the small smile to creep larger on his lips. He saw it in the reflection of his face on the tank and was somewhat disappointed that Kristof couldn’t see it. “Trying to ruin my plans are you, Kristof? You should be thankful that I still need you.” He tapped on the glass surface. “Because otherwise I would boil you in that thing right now and watch you burn from the inside out.”
He tapped again on the glass, like a man trying to scare fish away. “Don’t worry, Kristof, I have just the solution to our little problem. Just you just wait and see.”
Bizarre Mundanity
Joaquin lingered in the threshold of Frank Massey's apartment even after Betty's silhouette faded into the distance of a bustling city street. He closed and locked the front door, tossed the envelopes in his backpack, left via the back door and made his way to the bus stop. He didn’t see the black SUV creeping up from anywhere, and he wondered whether it hadn’t been waiting on Betty. He didn't know if his self-reassurance was far-fetched, and lamented the fact that he just didn't know the ins and outs of whatever the fuck was at play right now. The situation was developing quick and chaotic and Massey seemed to be in deep of it, but kept him in the dark on purpose. Before he had super-powers, it was easy to know whom he had to watch out for. Now, he just didn't know.
It was getting dark, earlier than usual, a nasty trick of the month. Joaquin measured the sky; saw how it darkened inch by inch, a layer of blue melting away to add purples and reds and oranges until it went indigo. He walked to the bus station nearest to Massey’s house trying to stay and as regular looking as his ego allowed him. The blue line bus pulled over and Joaquin was relieved to find it mostly empty. He looked around, but he didn’t spot anyone acting suspicious or spending too much time with their eyes glued to him.
He sighed. He was overwhelmed, and every shadow, every invisible threat spooked him. Joaquin thought that was pretty stupid for a guy who couldn’t get hurt, but still... It was like the paranoia Massey and Betty carried had transferred onto him and was now crawling up his spine, making him nervous. Even those glorious days in the Canadian wilderness with Peter seemed less dangerous. Joaquin rested his head against the bus window, watching humanity stroll by on the sidewalks, gather in front of bars, and seat-dance in their cars.
The curved glass of the window distorted the night sky, injecting fast-growing city lights into the mix. Red streaks broke into his view, the color crashing into his peripheral vision. Joaquin blinked at his reflection, hollow eyes twinkling with that dreadful color. The intruding shade disappeared as the bus gained speed. Joaquin pulled his hood tighter over his head and disappeared into the anonymity he used to take for granted.
When the bus groaned to a halt ten stops later, Joaquin jumped out, dismissing anyone staring at him from the steamy windows. He kicked up his pace, hands in pockets, eyes set firmly in one direction. The city lights were full in their illumination of the night now: neon greens, yellows, blues and pinks erupting from every commercial corner, selling booze, selling smokes, dealing drugs, dealing porn. They gave away some sort of warmth and comfort, and Joaquin felt more at home as he rushed down the curb, dodging people, avoiding eyes. His ears picked out music, but it died out in the cacophony of a city gearing up for the nightlife. The halting thump-thump of dance music blared out of open doors. Blues, country, and rock also competed for his attention. He could make out brief snippets of conversation, whispered words from smirking mouths. He relished the slang and accents constructing one giant jibber-jabber in front of food carts. He smelled the curbside popcorn, gamy kebabs, hot dogs and ice cream right by weed-smokers exchanging signs and currency. Hard drinkers crushed brown paper bags between calloused fingers. They watched him with watery eyes from hollow sandpaper faces. He knew them all, their nature, their tricks. He felt like he could breathe again alone and assured in the bizarre mundanity of the Seattle urban sprawl.
Globe's phone rang, and he pried his eyes away from Kristof’s tank.
“What?” he snapped at the caller.
A gruff voice paused and replied, “You told me to keep my eyes open for anyone sniffing around the Jensen case.”
There was no need to try to discern the voice; only Batiste would call that number. Globe cursed silently. He didn’t have time to play counsel to the FBI right now. He sighed. “And?” he demanded of his FBI contact.
“One of Seattle PD's officers managed to sneak out the file and copies of the tapes.”
“What?” Globe hated that he had to repeat himself, but his anger had a short fuse right now, and it was close to burning out again.
“Officer Betty Patterson. She’s a clever one. Copied the file, destroyed the original and went on her way to mischief. Legally that slows us down, Doctor Globe.”
“I thought I was paying you to not allow any problems with this case, Charles, and this is a big fucking problem. I need that case built! Find her!”
“Relax, future Mister Mayor. My men are already on it. I called to let you know she’s outside Detective Frank Massey’s house right now, talking to a young black male. Massey isn’t here, though. What do you want me to do?”
Globe halted, his tongue darting out to lick his parched lips. “Keep close and keep me posted. I want to know who that young black male is and what Massey plans to do with those files. God knows he won’t prove Jensen innocent any day soon with all the information you manufactured on him." Globe paused to allow his plans to coalesce. "I’m not taking any chances with that nosey detective.”
“And the female officer?”
“Do whatever you want with her. If she’s so keen on helping Massey, she can suffer the consequences. I don’t want any loose ends in the SPD. In the meantime, you do your job and make sure Jensen’s prosecution isn’t compromised by such hiccups.”
There was a light chuckle from the other side, and then Batiste hung up.
Globe paused to compose himself then dialed Anne. His voice found the liquid calmness he liked to use with her.
“Anne, sweetheart? I’m sending Silas to meet with you. I want you two to track down Joaquin. Can you do that for me?”
Joaquin jogged through the stalled traffic, the overcast evening getting cold. He appreciated the comfortable numbness. Light shone brilliantly from behind the clouds. The phantom moon pulled at his inner tide. He allowed the celestial influence guide him toward Andy’s apartment in Chinatown. No one called it that anymore–now it was the International District. Joaquin expected Andy to live in a house with a white picket fence, but instead he and Massey found the hacker in a small apartment above an Asian travel agency, and Moe’s Exotic Herbs.
As Joaquin walked by, an Asian man lackadaisically sweeping the floor inside Moe’s Exotic Herbs, eyed him. His motions became more deliberate, the grip on the broom ti
ghtening. He feigned concentration at his task, but Joaquin caught the pull of the lip, saw the wrinkles piling on the ancient cheeks, saw the barely-showing but present snarl. A thought slowly crept into his mind that the man wasn’t judging him by appearance, but by the fact that he was one of them—one of the super-powered people they’d been showing on the TV all day. The media painted them as killers, so why would some ordinary man see it otherwise? Joaquin felt suddenly transparent to the man, his freak DNA imprinted on his skin. He rushed past the glint of the window. Behind him, the man flipped the “Closed” sign and turned off the lights.
Joaquin found the stairs on the side of the building. He climbed them two at a time, and when he snuck inside the narrow corridor, he quickly found Andy’s black-painted door. His banged his fist on it. When Andy didn’t answer, he hammered at it again, feeling it shift slightly under the pressure of his impatience and frustration. “Yo man, open up. It’s Joaquin.”
He heard the muffled sounds of feet rushing on wood, the throwing of something heavier, the drop of coins and the light swear. Then the door cracked open, obstructed by the rusted chain.
“Slide that shit open homie, and let me in.”
Andy slicked back his hair and craned his neck to look past Joaquin.
“Where’s Detective Massey?”
“Busy,” Joaquin squeezed through teeth. “I got the stuff instead. So. Move. Over.”
Andy yanked the chain free and stepped aside allowing Joaquin’s large frame access.
“The hell were you doin’ makin' me wait and shit? I thought you was trippin’ or somethin’.” Joaquin looked around the apartment. It wasn’t difficult to figure out Andy had rushed to make it look more hospitable, cleaning papers and clothes, which were in a heap on the bed. Despite his effort, the small living room was like a disposal area: food, clothing, cables, cameras, CDs all in a mess that Andy probably called order.
Andy shook his head. “I don’t partake in drug usage. So, Golden Boy, let me see what you brought.”
Joaquin handed him the backpack. “Don’t call me that.”
Andy gave Joaquin one of his famous idiotic smirks. His slim fingers pinched the manila folder first. “Let’s see if Mister Miles Jensen was anywhere near capable of pulling that harebrained stunt off earlier today.”
He pulled his chair close to the gleaming screen of his computer and threw the folder on the desk next to coffee cup gone cold.
Andy booted a program that Joaquin read was the ‘Last Regiment.’ It was a simple design that offered a search option, a gallery of images, videos, live CCTV and a chat. Joaquin gawked at the number of videos uploaded. They all had nicknames appropriate to the power of the person filmed, and there were hundreds.
“Are these all supers?”
“Oh yes. I used to blog about them before, but it wasn’t enough. It evolved into this: the largest catalog in existence.”
“How will you know whether it was Jensen or somebody else?” Joaquin asked as he pulled up a chair and sat next to Andy.
“I enter the name and description of the super we’re looking for in the Last Regiment. If any of our watchers have uploaded any sightings that correlate with this person’s description or any keywords that I enter...like this: “freeze,” “Jensen,” “Miles,” “IT,” “Madison Park,” it’ll pop up. We have eyes pretty much all over the city so it shouldn’t be that hard, unless of course Mister Jensen is completely innocent and has never participated in any annihilative activities, or never used his power publicly. But, as per detective Massey’s request, we’ll have to ‘predict’ whether he was capable of doing any harm.”
“How the hell are we supposed to do that?” Joaquin asked.
“By using a low-budget, self-modified version of FAST.”
“FAST? Dude, now you’re just sayin’ stuff.”
Andy sighed and turned to Joaquin. “The Department of Homeland Security has a little program called Future Attribute Screening Technology, or FAST. The cool thing about this virtual brain is that it’s designed to predict whether average everyday Joes and Janes who aren’t suspected of any particular crime, might commit one in the future. Homeland Security bases it on a mix of physiological and behavioral signals; I base it on super-powered spikes. Small things, details that evade the naked eye but ultimately point toward the unsupervised usage of superpowers in the daily lives of our ordinary neighbors and passersby.”
“But if there’s evidence of Jensen doing shit with his power, like videos and photos, wouldn’t that be enough proof?”
Andy sat back in his chair, pulling hungry fingers away from the faded keyboard. “Detective Massey suspects something. He apparently believes this guy is innocent or been framed. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have given these to me. Even if Miles Jensen is on those videos showing off his freeze powers that doesn’t mean he was capable of killing anyone. It doesn’t make him guilty. Wouldn’t you agree, Joaquin?”
Andy watched him out of the corner of his eye. Forgetting to wear the mask, Joaquin looked down at his hands, measuring guilt and innocence in his palms.
You’re scaring him. Fear turns to anger, and anger to hatred. Stop creating villains, Andy.
Andy swiveled back in his chair and put his fingers and mind to work. The raucous laughter of the voice in his head died away as work engulfed him. “Now, let’s see if Miles Jensen can freeze people to death.”
Andy puffed on a cigarette. It burned between his thin fingers, ash gathering at the tip, threatening to tip over. He crushed it inside the ashtray.
“Well, what do you know?”
Joaquin looked up. The screen displayed six videos, and when Andy played the first, Joaquin quickly found Jensen among the crowd of people and saw how he slipped away into a dark alley, pulling at his clothes and falling to his knees, his hands buried in his hair. Then there was a flash of something bright distorting the camera and when it regained focus, a large spot on the ground and on the walls of the opposing buildings were covered in glistening, pristine ice. The camera flipped sideways and after a few shaky seconds and curses from its owner, it switched off.
“That was Jensen alright. Seemingly unable to contain and control his power. Let’s see video number two.”
The second video was much worse. Its quality was bad, as it was filmed from under a table as far as Joaquin could see. The audio crackled and the picture was blurry when the phone moved, but it was clear that the target of the video was Jensen. He was wearing the same outfit, pacing back and forth in a coffee shop, fuming at the end of the line. He exchanged a few loud and harsh words with an oafish man in front of him and then after a display on machismo, that man pushed him; Jensen put his hands on the man’s chest and pushed back. The man fell to the ground, kicking and screaming, and Jensen ran away, driving apart the growing crowd. Joaquin could see the white fumes swirling from the victim’s body—and when he ripped his shirt open, the thin crust of ice covering his chest.
“Whoa!” Joaquin sat back. “He froze that dude for no reason! Play the next one.”
But Andy wasn’t moving. He continued to stare at the screen. Slowly, he declared, “Something isn’t right.”
“Yeah, no shit. Jensen is guilty, that’s for sure, homie.” Joaquin felt his fingers tighten into a fist. He remembered how he wanted to beat Jensen into a bloody pulp, serving justice the hard way.
“No, something isn’t right with the videos. Look—they were all uploaded two days before the attack in Madison Park. It seems...too easy.”
Joaquin shrugged. “I don’t know man, I see what’s before me, and that’s Jensen goin’ crazy on some dude’s ass. Ain’t that enough evidence to predict him capable of blasting those kids earlier?”
Andy played the other videos. They showed a progression in Jensen’s violent behavior and growth in his power. He wasn’t just freezing small areas; he was turning himself into ice, a single touch away from making everything freeze. One video even showed reflections in glass—clouds obscured the s
un, and Jensen staggered past a blue-framed window, the cityscape pristine in the background. In others, he displayed violent fits and body alteration, limbs gaining misshapen extensions constructed from ice and “firing” ice spikes, the impact lodging them in solid concrete. It was inhuman. Joaquin was speechless, both impressed and terrified.
Above his head, the air conditioning rattled back to life. The light buzz filled the dust-covered silence between the two men. Joaquin watched a fly crawl near the narrow slit where the cold air escaped to fight the stale warmth in Andy’s room. It got sucked in. Finally, Andy slammed his hand on his knee like he’d just been forced awake, and spoke.
“This isn’t right! I watch every video that the watchers deliver and I have a strict rule that no one keeps an original file on his personal computer. Everything that the Last Regiment has is stored on flash drives right here with me.” Andy waved a hand toward metal filing cabinet.
“Maybe someone decided to play you, playa’,” Joaquin offered. “Some other traveller scopin’ out supers.”
“No, no, no, no.” Andy sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I would have seen these videos, they all go through me for approval when any of the admins wants to upload.” Andy clicked on the username of the uploader. The video was shared by nano123, a very general user Andy hadn’t seen before, and he knew all of them. Only the six videos were associated with the user and when he clicked on the profile it was empty, aside from the picture of a white bunny rabbit with purple headphones.
“They must all be fake!” Andy exclaimed.
Bingo, jackpot, touchdown kiddo. You would have gotten a stiffy if a super like this existed. Freezing objects! What a talent, eh?
Andy shook away the voice that always buzzed inside his head. It was louder this time, momentarily clouding his thoughts.
Joaquin pointed toward the screen. “No way these are all fake man. They look like—"
Andy interrupted. “Like they were made in a movie studio with a ton of cash and a lot of CGI. In the past months since the supers uprising started, there hasn’t been one, not one, super-powered person with abilities as strong or pronounced as these shown here. There would have been something already.” Andy emphasized the word by banging his fist against the desk. A pile of papers toppled over and crashed to the floor.