by Tom Andry
One of the harder moments was when Medico's daughter was brought out. She was young, maybe three years old, and she didn't understand. Disconcertingly, she asked more about Assistant than she did her own father. I couldn't help but hang my head. There was no way I could look that little girl in the eye. Members of The Bulwark had been in and out of the doctor's lab all night mostly bringing out material and equipment to be destroyed. Ninety percent of what was down there was completely unidentifiable to anyone but the doctor so it all had to be destroyed or recycled. Given that his supposedly harmless robot had gone on a killing spree of unknown scope, they weren't taking many chances. If it even had a circuit board, they'd strip it for wire and raw materials and incinerate the rest.
As Officer Kent continued his questioning, I noticed a familiar officer in the crowd. As I didn't normally associate with many cops it drew my attention. At first I couldn't see his face clearly, but it was obvious he was doing more than just cleaning up. Half of what he picked up went in his pockets. I was about to say something to Kent when the officer turned.
Ted.
He was wearing the same face I'd last seen on him except now he had a mustache and a cop's uniform. He tipped his hat at me and ducked out through the front door. I closed my mouth, which had been ready to report this suspicious cop.
Well, it looked like Ted would owe me one more for not ratting him out.
Finally, Kent was done with his questions and he stood up. "Well, thanks for the collar. Sorry it ended up this way. I know you didn't like the guy, but no one deserves to go like that."
"Yeah," I responded softly.
He patted me on the shoulder, "It's been a long night, man. Sun's almost up. I'm sure we're gonna have some more questions for you tomorrow. Try to get some sleep. I'll see if I can keep them from calling you in before lunch."
"Thanks for that," I nodded at him, but I couldn't help but notice how intently Gale was watching me.
As he left, she walked over purposefully, the white fabric snaking around her angrily. Unlike before, she was wearing her customary molded eye mask. This one was white, to match the fabric, and trimmed with a silver wind motif. I thought it was a bit much, but it was clear she wasn't coming over to talk about masks.
"Gale..."
"Cut it, Bob. I want the truth," she whispered angrily. She sat where Kent had, only moments before, and leaned far in so that we were almost nose-to-nose. She must have had dinner plans. She was wearing the perfume she only wore when she went out.
"I'm not sure what you mean," I responded evasively.
"So that's your story? You get here, tell Arts about the microbots, and they turn on him?"
"That's the way it happened," I looked at the floor.
"And you're telling me there was nothing you could have done? Nothing that might have saved him?"
"No."
"Bob?"
I looked up at her, her hazel eyes so familiar, yet so distant.
"Yes?"
"Tell me you couldn't have done anything. Tell me you didn't let him die. Tell me you didn't orphan that poor girl under some pretense of justice."
"Come on, Wendi, you know me. Do you think I won't be asking myself that same question every night? Could I have found the code faster? I thought that would shut down the... microbots you called them... but it didn't. I didn't think they would hurt me. And they didn't, but at the time I didn't want to go diving through a cloud of them for the can." I sighed, "Sure, in hindsight, if I had grabbed the can first, maybe. But they went right for the brain from what I saw. I don't know that there was anything I could have done."
"It wouldn't be justice, you know," she stated, voice hard.
I thought about the daughter. Would she really be worse off without her father? I didn't know. "What do you mean?"
"It's revenge, pure and simple. Nothing you can do will bring her back. Bring me back."
"I know," I answered wistfully. "I know."
She stared at me for a long moment, skeptical, "Okay, okay. I know how these things are. I won't second-guess you. But you have to admit that you've never been a fan."
"That's an understatement," I said. "But do you really think I'd let the man die?"
She looked at me again. I met her eyes, happy to be this close to her again regardless of the circumstances.
"No, I suppose not. The man I knew wouldn't, that's for sure."
I nodded, remembering that man.
She stood, slowly, the cloth around her settled in to a comfortable position, "You know, you just called me Wendi, right?"
"Sorry, Gale."
# # #
About the Author
Tom Andry is the Associate Editor of Audioholics.com, the largest AV website in the universe (as far as he's concerned) and host of the AV Rant podcast, the rantyest AV podcast on the net. He's the father of three boys affectionately nicknamed Punkalicious, Captain Evil, and Neo. He's happily married and currently resides in Perth, Australia. His background is in drama, creative writing, and research psychology, which basically means his kids are in for a pretty rough time. His wife, Tanel, doesn't have it so easy either. If you liked what you read, he'd appreciate checking out his other works, reviewing the book so he'll actually do other works, and telling your friends.
Connect with Me Online
www.tomandry.com
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Note from the Author
Writing bios about myself has always reminded me that I'll probably never be the subject of a biography (or autobiography). And if, by some fluke, something like that did get written, please, don't read it. It's sure to be boring (or full of lies, which probably would be a better read). I grew up trying desperately to be unhappy in a chronically happy family. I succeeded for a long time until I got married. Luckily for my writing career, I remember enough of those bitter, forced unhappy times to call them up when needed to connect with my damaged characters.
I've always been the type that wished he knew what he wanted out of life. There were times that I thought I knew what I wanted to be "when I grew up." Ironically, one of those times I was sure I'd be a writer. I loved writing, I had people tell me I didn't suck at it, and it was fun and easy. What I've never had was the sort of drive that it takes to see a project all the way through to the end. On the computer that I'm typing on now, I've got two different novels that both stalled on the sixth chapter.
Believe me when I say that when No Hero passed the sixth chapter, I cracked a smile and a beer.
I know what I did wrong with those other two books. The first was a complicated fantasy novel where I had to keep a pantheon of gods, a monetary system, a government, a city, the characters, the plot, and much more all in the front of my mind. I started the novel on a vacation, outlined the whole thing, and got five chapters written. I managed one more before the demands of work and my family made it impossible to keep everything straight in my head. On my next big vacation, I planned on getting back into it. Unfortunately, my charger for my laptop died and I couldn't get a replacement. Since then, I haven't taken another vacation.
When I started the second novel, I realized what I'd done wrong on the first. Too complicated, too big, too much to think about. For the second, I set it in the present day, in a city not unlike the one I was living in, with a slightly supernatural twist. I figured out the beginning and the end but assumed the middle would just flow. The first six chapters wrote themselves. After that, the "flow" ended. I put it aside to figure it out. I'm still trying. So I've got one that's outlined and ready to go that I can't keep straight in my head and another that is easy to keep in my head but won't come out.
Then along came the iPad. My eyes were opened to a world of free books (because I am, at heart, a cheap bastard). I read them voraciously thinking all along, "I could write one of these!" There are two things that were really (other than sloth and the demon of chapter seven) holding me back from completing a work. First, publishing. Writing the book is the first part. In
many ways, it's the easiest (though that seems hard to believe when you're staring at a big, blank chapter seven with no idea what to write next). The hard part is getting it in front of the right person at the right time. How many novels have languished, unknown, until finally crumbing to dust after years of living in a box in an attic somewhere? With the iPad, I knew I could get published. No one might read it, but it'd be published.
The second hurdle for me was length. Having to meet some sort of arbitrary number of words because that's what sells or what looks good on a shelf or what publishers want has always infuriated me. Maybe I don't have the skill to plan a novel out so well that it will hit 70,000 words (not just maybe, definitely). Maybe I don't have a story that long in me. I know from my writing at Audioholics.com that I tend to be succinct. Even No Hero, which I had planned as a really short novella (around half the size it ended up), could have been stretched into closer to a full length novel if I wanted. That two weeks where Bob is following around the doctor? Prime filler material (and more than one person has suggested that I do just that). But I didn't want to be bothered and while I'm sure I could have made it work for the story and at least mildly interesting, I don't think it hurts to skip it. How many novels have you read and thought they could have cut out over half the chapters and still made a decent book? Many for me.
What made No Hero a project that I completed in less than a month (twenty-five days to be exact) was that I had no limitations put on me. I wanted it to be short; I wanted to tell my story with a minimum of fuss; and I wanted to be published. Honestly, writers are egomaniacs by nature and as long as I have a place I can tell people to go (even if it is on the Internet though I'd love to walk into a bookstore and see one of my works) to get my book, I'm happy. To be honest, I couldn't be happier. Will I write another? Will I dust off one of those novels stuck on chapter six and finish them? Will I write another story of Bob Moore, PI? We'll see.
I have a few people to thank. First and foremost, my wife Tanel. Even though I had to give up being a bitter, cynical bastard to marry her, I think it was worth it. My parents, of course have to make the list. A special shout goes out to all my proofreaders and friends; Angie, Theresa, Pat, Bobby and Clint. Rob gets a special mention because he probably wrote as many words as I did simply commenting on the novella. His help was invaluable. Even though I'm writing this while the email to him is still in my drafts folder, thanks to James Riot for what I'm sure it going to be an awesome cover. For my loyal readers and coworkers at Audioholics and listeners at AV Rant, thanks for the support. A special mention goes out to the kid that got Eragon published and for all you iBooks authors for making me think I could do it too. Lastly, even though you said I'd never make it as a writer, a big thanks goes out to Kevin for making me the man I am today.
Excerpt from Bob Moore: Desperate Times
Chapter 1
"I really don't see why I need to be here is all I'm saying," I groused.
"Ja, I agree," Force, the super currently piling the unconscious bodies of terrorists in the middle of the room, muttered in his lightly accented English. "He's just a PI after all. He doesn't even have powers."
Gale ignored him. "You know the rules, Bob," Gale turned to face me, her “stealth” costume, a length of black fabric, coiled around her, a silver embroidered B flashing in the light as it passed, "to collect the reward from the Super State, you need to be instrumental in foiling the plot. Sure, bringing it to our attention is usually enough. But considering our former relationship, I didn't want there to be any doubt."
I wasn't as grumpy as I sounded. I was mostly just tired; hadn't been sleeping well for the last few months. But if I had known uncovering a terrorist plot would make Wendi, my ex-wife now known as the super "Gale", insist on spending time with me, I'd have focused all my efforts in that area.
"And me being here erases that doubt?" I managed through a yawn. I nodded at the man on the ground who was writhing in soundless agony, "You gonna let him breathe any time soon?"
Gale glanced down at the man. He was wearing a camouflage flak jacket, matching cargo pants, gloves, and work boots. When we had arrived a few minutes ago, the group had camouflage ninja-style hoods as well, which showed only their eyes. Gale, whose super power was control over air, had pinned down the leader by blocking most of the oxygen from entering his lungs. He had pulled off his mask and now his eyes were bulging as he clawed at his throat, struggling to breathe.
"Oh," Gale laughed lightly, her green eyes flashing behind her black, molded eye mask, microbursts of wind keeping the five yard long piece of fabric constantly on the move, "he's being overly dramatic. He won't die." Her bronze skin was flawless on her five foot, eight inch frame, wavy brown hair flowing down her back and out behind her. I shook my head. Gale's power always made it look like she was posing for a photo shoot.
"Still," I responded, "it's a bit disconcerting."
Gale nodded toward the wall of mismatched TV screens the terrorists had planned on using to watch their handiwork. Behind her, Force and Whisper, two members of the premier superhero team known as The Bulwark, continued exporting the terrorists to their holding cells on their space station base. Whisper had the power to open up "gates" or teleportation portals. Shimmering around the edges, she would open a gate to a particular cell and Force would throw them through. They'd land in a heap and immediately start vomiting. Whisper's gates had that effect. I knew from personal experience.
Over Force’s shoulder, I noticed one of the terrorists moving slightly. I thought about pointing it out, giving him a warning, but shrugged instead. Gale's current fling shouldn’t need my help protecting himself. The hooded terrorist raised a weapon of some kind, probably the proverbial death ray, and aimed it at Force. A beam of light shot out of it, hitting the super squarely on the back. He actually grimaced, which I found to be extremely satisfying. The Bulwark was, without a doubt, the most famous super group on the planet and Force was one of the more popular members. I thought everyone knew that he was pretty much invulnerable. I supposed this terrorist missed the memo.
Force spun on the terrorist, his hands in fists by his waist. In moments, his muscle mass, which was already considerable, seemed to double. He was nearly seven feet to begin with and he seemed to grow with his rage. If ever someone fit the stereotype of the master race, it was Force. His milky-white face, complete with square jaw and pale blue eyes, turned a light shade of red. This only served to accentuate his yellow-blonde, crew cut hair. His costume was a tight-fitting, black, leather-like affair that started with his boots and covered him to his neck. It was styled and molded as to emphasize his considerable physique. There were silver letter Bs, like the ones on Gale’s costume, on his shoulder and chest, a hallmark of members of The Bulwark. He clasped his hands together in one huge fist over his head, preparing to bring it down on the terrorist. His back smoked where the beam had hit him.
"Come now, Rod," I said quietly, "let's not lose our temper."
Force turned on me just as quickly, his eyes red with hate, "Don't use my name!" he hissed through clenched teeth.
The terrorist punctuated Force's statement by shooting him in the back again. Rod screamed in rage as I covered a chuckle behind my hand. This trip was turning out to be a lot more fun than I had anticipated. Again, Rod turned on the terrorist, grabbed him by the flak jacket and threw him through a recently opened gate.
"Hey!" Whisper called from the other side. "A little warning please?"
"Sorry, Samantha," I answered. "Our German friend here is having trouble keeping up with these tippys."
"Gale?" Whisper called back, "Keep that man of yours in line please. And tell him not to use my name."
"He hasn't been my man for quite some time," Gale responded playfully. "You two," she looked at me, "play nice. And Bob," she cocked her head disapprovingly, "stop using their names."
"Why?" I muttered. "You're going to wipe these guys' memories anyhow. I'm one of the few who know about your little s
pace station."
She knew just how to take the wind out of my sails. Not my man. I shook my head, warding away the images from my old life. I finally turned my attention to the TVs, unable to meet Gale's gaze. Every channel that was broadcasting the games was displayed on the wall of mismatched TVs, some more than once. The TVs looked like a display at a garage sale or pawn shop, many models older than me and only able to produce a black and white picture. My source had told me about this plot, not out of some sense of right or wrong, but because his family had won tickets to the games. He couldn't very well let his family die no matter how worthy his cause. He came to me because everyone knew I had connections. He could have gone to the cops, but they'd have ratted him out to the supers. With me, he could be sure that he could stay out of jail and alive.
Back when I was younger, we had the Olympic Games where the best athletes in the world met every four years to compete. When supers had started showing up in the late seventies, that had all changed. No one knew who was super and who wasn't, so professional sports fell out of favor, replaced by nightly recaps of super-on-super battles in the streets. Or, if you had enough money, you could pay exorbitant ticket prices for live super battles held whenever the Super State wanted to replenish their coffers. This was the first time an official Olympics-style games had been held in nearly twenty years. Only supers could participate, and it was quite an undertaking. To compete, heroes and villains alike had put aside their differences, rivalries, and plans for world domination. Everyone was shocked when Siddeon turned in Mr. Torture a week ago. Gift-wrapped and everything, complete with a fifty page report on exactly how Mr. Torture was planning on using the games to kidnap most of the world's leaders. With the lure of embarrassing your archenemy on global TV, even the villains had turned on each other to ensure the Tournament went forward.
