“What’s this?”
“Some stuff in there about Tony Azzurro you might take an interest in? Let me know what you turn up? Take some photos?”
“Photos?” I sigh and pocket the disc. “Fuck, Sal. How the hell have I got time to set up a camera for myself?”
“Never seemed like a problem for Spider-Man.”
I grit my teeth in an effort to say nothing and Sal just laughs, loving life at my expense. If things could be as easy as the comics, maybe I wouldn’t have a midnight appointment with Twilight.
“Fuck Spider-Man.”
It’s turning into a busy day.
Zephyr 2.9 “Some Weird, Perverse Foucauldian Metaphor”
THERE IS SOMETHING about being able to travel across the city at the speed of sound that can lend itself to impulsiveness. The Statue of Liberty remains like an incarnation of the ghost of some old battle-scarred warship, frozen in her metallic dignity overlooking the water where the New World no longer holds the promise of endless possibilities and even more than Han Solo could ever imagine. We one-time New Yorkers have retreated from that point. Sure it was the Kirlians who beat us back to the mainland, Manhattan being ground zero in their airborne offensive, but in the act of surrender there’s been a sense, for some of us at least, that we did more than yield ground, but conceded some moral point when we left Manhattan to the gangs and the muties.
Sure, by “we” I don’t really know who the fuck I am talking about since I was young enough at the time to be seriously considering what the term “bonk the baloney” might mean for my unsatisfied nocturnal urges. It’s something cultural boffins like Mandela like to talk about a lot, though. Read: the city as collective unconscious, wasteland as signifier of disheartened American psyche, etcetera etcetera. Trite, I know, but these people have to justify their jobs, and the backstabbing in academia makes Caesar’s Rome look like a kid’s fucking birthday party.
One thing I know for sure is Manhattan’s an irritatingly good hide-out for goons who know the everyday lawman’s too busy and too cautious to go into those garbage-festooned canyons to bring them to justice. The mutant psychic known as Mentor does a pretty good job of halting their worst excesses, and there’s rumors the Atlantic City Council has a secret supply deal to keep the freaks sweet. All I know is every second or third time I wander into old helmet-head’s airspace he likes to give me a mental tap on the shoulder.
Today’s no different.
After devouring two Wimpy burgers perched on the old lady’s crown, I’m set to make the afternoon appointment at White Nine when that creepy feeling overtakes me. Nothing could be as freaky as Mentor himself, but if psychic presence could be said to carry overtones, Mentor leaves a very specific kind of skid mark in the mind.
“I can feel you trying to get your fingers under the edges, Mentor,” I swear through gritted teeth. “What do you want?”
“Ah, Zephyr,” the thought comes, that pederastic hesitation over the fricative leaving me in no doubt as to who I’m talking to as I can virtually see the self-styled King of the Mutants steeple his unnaturally long fingers together. “I thought it was you passing by. Long time and a very long see, I fear. You’ve been staying away.”
“For good reason,” says I. “I have a life. You know, sunlight, clean air, hotdogs in the park, pennies in the fountain, riding bicycles through Central Park, girls in short shorts? Remember any of that?”
“Central Park is a gothic ruin,” Mentor’s typically erudite tone responds, emanating from somewhere within the devastation of old Manhattan. “You know Freakasaurus and his Sideshow Peeps have made that their killing fields?”
“I’m talking about the new Central Park, you anus,” I reply.
My voice is caught in the wind travelling around up high, but I know it won’t make any difference to this particular transmission. Telepathy’s not a power I’ve often wished I had. It’s Mentor’s only concession to a useful existence, since the rare mutation that threw up his grandmaster level mental powers also reduced his body to a near-useless pulpy mess he animates by sheer will alone.
“You know, commissioned in 1984, first plantings in ’86, open to the public, what was it, the Atlantic City Fair of 1989?”
“You know your history, Zephyr,” the old chap replies. “And I know mine.”
“And never the twain shall meet. Tell me what you want, Mentor old pal. I’ve got to meet a man about a horse.”
There’s a brief twinge as Mentor tries to ride that thought back down into my cerebellum: a move I know from history would give him ranging access to my memory banks, and if I really lost control, total mastery over my body. It would only take a few seconds to transform me into one of those mindless drones that form the bulk of his Manhattan army. Fortunately for me, I’ve been here before, and a quick selection of deliberate and shocking disconnected images throws the telepath off long enough to lose the trail. It’s a good thing Mentor’s desire to overthrow humanity only comes every five or six years. God help us the time he gets it right.
“Zephyr, don’t go,” he pleads quickly. “Please. Come to Manhattan. There are matters we must discuss.”
“I’m not coming anywhere near you, pal,” I think more than speak.
“I will swear to any truce you demand. Your visit is . . . imperative . . . and would be for both our gain.”
The slippery thought tones try and inflect the message with every suggestive trick in the book.
“Both our gain? Better tell me now or it’s no deal, Mental-man.”
“It’s to do with our mutual friend Think-Tank.”
“Mutual friend? That guy is a pain in the ass and you know it.”
“Well,” Mentor responds hesitantly, “at least mutual remains correct. He is proving to be a . . . problem for myself as well.”
“You want me to come to you for this?”
“You would not be mistreated. You have it on my honor.”
I snort, but that’s enough posturing for today. Truth is the headcase has me intrigued. Think-Tank is one dangerous motherfucker I would like to put away for good, if not drown in the Miskatonic.
“Alright,” I say, “but another day. There’s too much on now.”
“Your humble servant awaits. . . .”
“Great,” I reply, jetting high enough into the atmosphere I begin passing light planes. “Now get the fuck out of my head.”
Within moments I pass out of range and do not receive the mutant’s chosen response.
*
SITTING IN THE middle of the river, there’s really two prisons on Riker’s Island. The original prison has agglomerated wards and sections slowly since it was bought from an old Dutchman in the 1800s, and these days has facilities to deal with over twenty thousand inmates. There are playing grounds and recreational canola fields for the nearer-to-rehabilitation inmates separating the hard prison from White Nine, which from the air, as I’m approaching it, looks more like an observatory than the world’s most impressive solution to the parahuman menace.
While the facility itself is bland enough, the hard-top-mounted rocket relays tracking my approach are intimidating even for someone who could probably outfly them. I go straight for the helipad to avoid ugly accidents. We have no radio connection, though technically I have sufficient gear in my belt pack if I wanted to spend an hour untangling the cables, so calling ahead for air clearance isn’t really a goer. They know I’m due. I trust to Zephyr’s good name and some of the more life-saving connotations of brand recognition as I touch down and wait for the little trolleys with guards and administrators to shuttle down the half-concealed walkway from the main prison house.
I have met Dr Zane Wilson before, I know, because he tells me so, and he seems like a very trustworthy guy. Otherwise I wouldn’t have a clue. I nod with seriousness, hell, compassion even, as we walk from the trolley depot and into the guts of the vast machine. Hospital-slick floors chart the path before us.
“Of course we’ll still have your v
irtual profile on record here, your residual self-image, Zephyr,” the scientist says. “This shouldn’t take more than an hour or so.”
It has been a while since I visited the facility. Hardly my favorite place.
You see White Nine isn’t like any ordinary prison. It mixes all the best – which is to say worst – elements of a prison, a hospital and a cemetery. Deep behind and within the dense metal walls I can hear a powerful thrumming, the sensation of walking through a clockwork universe, vast elemental machines at work, the whole place one incredible device requiring the super-cooling technology of a small city to keep running without error.
White Nine is the actualization of some weird, perverse Foucauldian metaphor. Jeremy Bentham would be cumming in his grave. It is more crypt than prison, the only technical difference being the inmates are still, at least in one sense, alive.
The interview room is so advanced it resembles little more than a cross between a dentist’s clinic and a police interrogation room lifted from some 70s cop film. I move instantly to the weird chair and stride up and onto the mechanical platform with a certainty that only an alter ego can possess. Deep down my bowels bubble with inescapable reptilian fear. This goes against millennia of genetic programming, to submit myself to this strange crossover. But there’s no denying it keeps the city safer.
The carceral technicians use a rich chemical cocktail to send even the most hardened villains under, the moment they’re collected at a crime scene. Once on board an armored, taxpayer-funded flying ambulance just for them, they’re whisked to Rikers and quickly entered into neurological life-support and imprisoned in the vault. I am not sure of the legal processes or whether there’s been any successful challenges. Even the most ardent libertarians would have a hard time justifying easing up on the sorts of madball goons kept down here. And since the war in Tajikistan, it’s been hard to even discuss the topic, given the Government’s atrocious record. If they tried the same thing on the supers community, well, let’s just say it would be a different story. Even they haven’t been silly enough to go there, and for the guys who had to invade Iraq three times to get the job done, that’s really saying something.
The white coats come in and clip me up, attaching the gayest-looking futuristic helmet to my head you’ve ever seen. I saw worse in Doc Prendergast’s basement, but they were industrial-strength orgasmatrons, whereas this one will only produce a telemetric connection to my pal on ice, the Terraformer. The technicians confirm who I’m meeting and double-check the clearance and then they kind of encourage me to close my eyes, give me a compressed hypo shot to the wrist, and it’s straight to la-la land for twenty-odd minutes while they organize their shit and while me and everyone else not crossing their fingers and toes hope that more bad guys don’t choose precisely this moment to attack. It wouldn’t be the first time White Nine was breached, sad to say. It ain’t a perfect solution, just the best one they’ve come up with yet.
Somewhere a milky voice unnecessarily starts counting backwards from twenty. I follow the numbers with a strange curiosity until it dawns on me that I’m the one talking. My last thought, before the darkness comes and I go rushing down the cybernetic rabbit hole, is that I should really try and get my hands on some of this shit some time.
*
THE ROOM IS as sterile as a virtual construct could ever be.
I snap awake just in time to see a short guy in a black sweater also snuffle his way into consciousness. He’s the same guy I recall from the bank episode, collar-length strawberry blonde hair, nervous eyes, a generous allotment of stubble. The techs really didn’t spare the special effects budget when they went in for the render job. I’ve heard they make the heroes even better looking and more cut than in real life to make sure the baddies stay intimidated. Using advanced tech to send my enemies into my sleep with me would do the trick, as far as I’m concerned, with or without the virtual nip-and-tuck.
Zahn’s eyes widen as he drinks in my spectral splendor. While I think I can feel the constraints of the real life seat, we’re facing each other at a slight angle on simple black office chairs. The white space has no other details unless I wish it.
“Z-Zephyr,” he manages to get out.
“Steven Zahn aka the Terraformer,” I reply. “You asked for me to come. What is it?”
The fidgety guy breaks protocol straight away, nervously standing, the chair emitting a convincing blackboard squeal as it tips back, its occupant clearly forgetting straight away this is virtual rather than real space. I hope the shrinks were accurate in their lucidity assessment. Virtual world or not, I don’t want this guy freaking out on me.
“I’m not the Terraformer, man,” Zahn bleats anxiously. “I wouldn’t call myself that. It’s so lame. I’ve never dressed up in spandex my whole life.”
I can’t say the same, so I keep my mouth shut and let the rant wear itself out.
“I asked them for you to come,” he says. “You’ve gotta know. You’ve gotta understand. And you’ve gotta get me out of here.”
The plea in his eyes makes me momentarily unwell. Last time I was here it was to hear Crescendo’s poppycock posturing, fist raised threateningly despite the virtual prison PJs and the lack of soundwaves curdling the air around us. Zahn’s desperation is unsettling, but I can be an insensitive prick most of the time and finally I’m somewhere that talent comes in handy.
“Cut the crap, Zahn. You’re in here until hell freezes over for that trick you pulled,” I tell him.
“They’d give me life for a first offence?”
His eyes bulge. It would be comical if it wasn’t his own life we were discussing.
“I haven’t even got a lawyer. What’s up with that, man? You tell me. How can they do this? I’ve never even had a bong hit go down on my record.”
I have to concede this is true. I viewed his sheet before they let me in here. His assertion and the nervous air of innocence pique my curiosity.
“How do you explain it then?”
“I didn’t just call you in here to beg, Zephyr,” the smaller guy says.
He resumes his seat, swipes nervously at his virtual turtleneck and claws fingers I know would normally be green with nicotine stains through his wild hair. I eye him a moment longer, the whole passive-aggressive thing in my favor.
“I have information to offer, you know, if like anyone would fucking ask me for it,” he says a moment later. “That wasn’t me that did that to the bank. I’m no mutie freak. They say I ripped up the earth with my mind? I can’t do that. If I could do that, would I be running errands for a second-hand bookstore? Come on, you gotta give me more’n that, Zephyr.”
“Then how do you explain it?”
“Ras Algethi,” he replies.
“That’s not an explanation.”
Something goes ping in my mind and those years sitting in the branches of the tree watching the stars between the smog from the interstate and the low-flying ships at Newark come back to me, the dog-eared old book I would’ve flicked through on summer nights with my dad if I’d had one.
“Ras Algethi is a star,” I say.
“Yes, a star,” Zahn replies and jumps up again, clicking his fingers at me more like a mad and enthusiastic university professor than the residual self-image of a collared super-criminal. For a moment he reminds me of Paragon going lunatic on Oprah’s couch, though Zahn chills out far more quickly.
“It’s a star, a living star,” he says. “An ancient force. A god. A demon.”
“You’re into the occult and shit?”
“Totally,” he says, grinning for an instant before the smile falls from his face like bath tiles in a time-lapse of decay. “Or I was. I don’t know. But this is how it happened. Ras Algethi entered me.
“Ras Algethi is the Terraformer.”
Zephyr 2.10 “The Most Lethargic And Ardent Admirers”
I WOULD LOVE to say I shoot the shit with Zahn for half the afternoon and finally bail out of there with a promise in ink on my sleeve
and a fresh Zephyr business card in his hand, but there’s none of that. First the technicians only risk visitor immersion for thirty-five minutes max. Second, I’m not sure I can go with the creepy new angle he’s giving me.
Once clear of the institution, I call Synergy’s cell number.
“Zephyr, what’s up?”
“Your man Calloway. He was into the occult and stuff?”
“Big time,” she replies.
“OK. What do you have on cultural background for this Steven Zahn?”
“Who’s that?”
“Synergy, babe,” I laugh. “If you want me to do all your work, you’re gonna have to think up a suitable bribe.”
“It’s not my case,” she replies, the word asshole throbbing in its absence.
But I know Synergy well enough and she’s a cool chick and I can hear her taking one of those deep breaths I’ve admired so often on the chests of her and Seeker and Vulcana, and then she comes back on the line.
“I’m calling it up now. I’m bringing in Miss Black if I get what you’re suggesting here, that there’s an occult connection?”
I have my own suspicions about that and decide to hang ten on revealing too much else. We detour through some amiable chit-chat and when Synergy tries to steer me back toward the territory of what I do or do not know, I play the Zephyr card once more and start telling her how much I admire her dress sense. Flustered, bemused, flattered and pissed-off all in the one take, she distracts herself by reading big extracts from Zahn’s background files. In so doing, she confirms the bookstore story, and in a slow voice, adds details about signs of occult interest and paraphernalia found at the Terraformer’s nominated address.
“Now tell me how come your own people didn’t put this together?” I ask.
“I guess we were just waiting on your sheer brilliance, Zeph,” the agent replies in a tired voice. “Maybe now you’ll rethink your career.”
It’s not a very sincere recruitment so I handball it off with some quip about needing to be seduced, not recruited. If Synergy groans I can’t hear it over my own retching. It’s hard being me sometimes, especially when I exploit myself for the greater good.
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