"How can you not smile at that? C'mon, you gotta hate red lights, right? Bane of your existence? Stevie, I only got two settings. I'm a stubby little toggle switch with two settings. On one side it says "Funny" and on the other it says "Violent." I'm not smashing your face in with a briefcase, ergo, I'm being funny."
In spite of his attempt at self-control, Stevie had to smile a little bit at that.
"Aaah, aaah, there we go."
Stevie quickly snapped his expression back to neutral. "Please sir, don't make me laugh."
"’Sir’? What's with this ‘Sir’ nonsense? Stevie, it's ME. You know me. I'm not tall enough to be a ‘Sir.’ You know what they call somebody who walks around all day at the perfect height to smell everybody else's ass? Maybe ‘unlucky.’ Maybe ‘stunted.’ But definitely not ‘Sir.’”
Now Stevie really couldn't help himself. He let out a guilty little snicker and covered his face with this hand.
"What?" asked Topper, "What is it with the no laughing?"
"He fines us, sir. He fines us for smiling and laughing on the job," said the chauffeur.
Topper stared at the chauffeur in mute amazement. Then he broke into a smile, "Oooooh, that's a good one. You really had me going there. Fines you for smiling. Why that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever..." Topper trailed off when he realized that Stevie still wasn't smiling. When you spring a joke on somebody, you're supposed to smile, right? But Stevie was as serious as Topper had ever known him to be.
When Stevie spoke, Topper heard Edwin's words coming out of his mouth, "Omdemnity Insurance Policy Manual and Code of Conduct: 'All employees will refrain from unnecessary, energy-stealing displays of emotion in the performance of their duties. Wasted energy is not productive and displays of emotion can cause distress or contagion in other Omdemnity employees. In the case of repeat violations, fines will be instituted based on the rate schedule found in Appendix 37-C.’"
"Repeat violations?" Topper said, not believing what he had heard. "And they think I'm crazy."
"I used to be a happy man," the chauffeur said with a heavy sigh.
"This is outta hand," said Topper. "I gotta do something about this. I'm gonna talk to him."
"Oh, please don't, sir. He might think it was me."
"Hey! HEY!" Topper shrieked. "Remember the switch?!"
"Please, I don't care about your switch, I really need this job."
"It's either funny or violent. And you're outta your goddamned mind. You and Edwin. So snap out of it!" Topper flopped back in his seat and reached for the non-existent minibar. "GAHHH!" he cried in frustration.
After a while, Topper said, "Look, I'm sorry I got upset. But this is bullshit."
"Sir…"
"Stevie, we shouldn't have to live like this. None of us."
"Sir, I agree with you, but…" Stevie nodded towards the rearview mirror. Topper looked behind them and saw a security team pouring out of the lobby.
"Yeah, Stevie, we better vamoose."
"Did you make some new friends, sir?"
"Everywhere I go," answered Topper. "Wait a minute, was that a joke?"
"No, sir, of course not," said Stevie as he drove away. "That would be against company policy."
"Ennn-henh," said Topper.
As they wound their way out of General Business Machines' corporate campus, Topper could see an ornate security gate closing in front of them. "Aw YEAH! This is just what I need. RAMMING SPEED!"
Stevie let off the gas and began to slow down.
"What? What are you doing? They're coming with the guards and the guys and the—go faster! Faster!"
"That's not the procedure."
"What, the procedure is surrender? Gimmie your nine, Stevie, I'll hold them off."
Very slowly, Stevie rolled the front bumper of the car up to the now-closed gate. On the hill behind them, in front of the building, Topper could see a security team getting into three jeeps.
"What are you doing?"
"Saving the radiator, sir." Stevie pressed on the accelerator gently. The pressure built up in the gate until it gave way with a surprisingly gentle-sounding screech. Then gate fell over and out of their way.
"See?" asked Stevie.
"See what? That was boring."
"It's the approved procedure for transiting an intervening gate."
"Oh, Stevie, what have they done to us?" asked Topper. "When did they steal the BOOM! and the whaWHAAAAA, screeeeeeeeeeeeech!" said Topper imitating the sound of a car bashing though a security gate in a 1970's movie chase scene.
Stevie merged into traffic at a sane and reasonable pace.
"And then you go around the corner really fast and one of the hubcaps comes off and makes that sad whuh, whuh, whuh, whuh noise for a minute. And it's calm for a second. Then you're back to Steve McQueen slamming through the streets of San Francisco. Oh, Stevie, they stole our dreams, man. They stole our dreams."
Stevie focused on the road. Topper was quiet for a while, but when he noticed the route Stevie was taking, Topper said, "No, Stevie, not the office. That's not going to cheer me up."
"Then where are we going?" asked Stevie.
He had been known as the Cromoglodon, a name which had become synonymous with total, irresistible and irrevocable destruction. But as he stood next to General Business Machines' automated manufacturing facility, he did not look fearsome or powerful. He looked like a man who had forgotten his own name.
He blinked and raised a hand against the bright light of the sun. His home, or rather his pen, was now a cage in the basement of Omdemnity Insurance. They didn't let him out much.
He had been tamed (if that was a word one should apply to humans) when Edwin Windsor had placed an electrode deep within his cerebral cortex. Now, whenever he failed to comply with his handler's wishes, the electrode would be activated and his body would be wracked with fear and pain.
Barry stared at the gigantic building. He knew what was expected of him. It was the same thing that was expected of him every time he was let out of his cage. They wanted him to let loose his colossal fury and bash everything into tiny little bits. But the tools of pain and the fear that they had used to control him had burned him clean. There was no more rage left. He was just happy to be outside.
He took a breath. He let it out.
From behind him he heard yelling. He turned to look at several men standing next to the armored truck that they transported him in. They were all yelling at him to get on with it. Two of them were in overalls, another was in a suit. And there was the little one. He remembered the little one. Sometimes the little one came to see Barry in the basement. He was the only visitor Barry ever had.
As the little one walked towards him, one of the technicians said, "Eh, it's your funeral."
“Just hold off on shocking his brain,” Topper said. "Hey pal," Topper said, holding his hands out to the side so that the Cromoglodon could see the apple. "You glad to be out of that hole?" Topper produced an apple from his pocket. "Here you go."
Barry crunched the apple once between his molars and swallowed it.
"There you go," said Topper, soft like he was talking to a horse. "I'm not gonna lie to you big fella. I'm having a rough time of it. All these rules. All these procedures. About the only thing that cheers me up is watching you work your magic." Topper scratched the huge brute behind his knee.
A smile broke across Barry's face.
"Ah, go on you big lug," Topper said, "bust some shit up."
Barry lumbered down the hill towards the soon-to-be ex-facility.
The technician said "I thought for sure I was gonna have to use the button."
"Nah," said Topper, "I told you, I have a way with animals."
"Heh, heh," chortled the average-height technician.
Topper didn't say what he was thinking: "Hey pal, us freaks have to stick together."
CHAPTER FOUR
For Milton Smiles, director of the Bureau of MetaHuman Affairs, life was pretty good. One might have
thought that the loss of Excelsior, the Bureau’s most powerful asset, would have put a dent in his career. That would only mean that one did not understand how bureaucracy worked.
When Excelsior had disappeared nearly two years before, it had caused a crisis. Just as yeast feeds on sugar, Bureaus and their Crats feed on crisis. There had been calls for increased funding, new mandates and new powers. And all of these calls seemed to come from outside his agency. The crisis had been the best kind of political capital an ambitious and self-serving bureaucrat can ever hope for.
It had long been taken as a cornerstone of national security that Excelsior was unwaveringly loyal, completely controllable and absolutely indestructible. Smiles had learned for himself that the most powerful man in the world had been, at best, marginally stable. He was aware, vaguely, that Edwin Windsor had had something to do with Excelsior's disappearance. But he tried not to think about it too much. You see, he was much better off without Excelsior.
True, the talent his agency had to work with was less powerful, but there were now more of them. And they were easier to work with. Best of all, he now knew that if one of them went rogue, he knew their weaknesses. He had recourse. He could stop them.
As the number of people working for him had grown, his prestige and power kept pace. He traded his town home for a real home and a far better class of mistress. Everyone took his call. The pit of his stomach unclenched. For even as the power of his agency grew, the number of problems it had to deal with shrank.
The hubris of the bureaucrat Smiles had grown. Had he become so powerful that he could avoid the inevitable reversal of fortune? Had he become, in his happiness, the untouchable man, no longer the plaything of the Gods? Perhaps, but centuries of drama would suggest otherwise.
Smiles had been enjoying one of privileges of his position, sitting in his corner office playing solitaire on an NSA-encrypted, $5,000 laptop. He had been planning to take a late lunch and forget to come back to the office. Life had been good for Director Smiles.
Red 9 on Black 10," had come a voice from over his shoulder. Smiles had spun in righteous anger. Who would dare to sneak up on him? To enter his office without knocking? Not only to catch him playing solitaire, but to kibitz on his play?
He had found himself facing Senator James Buchanan. He was sleek and fat like a cat who shouldn’t be able to hunt, but was somehow cunning enough that he always had blood on his claws. Senator Buchanan controlled at least 70% of Smiles’ funding. Using the bureaucratic superpower known as oversight, The Senator could make Smiles’ life very uncomfortable if he was unhappy. And he had looked very unhappy just then.
Before Smiles had been able to sputter an excuse, the Senator had cut him off. "Get up." An aide of the Senator's had quickly moved to the computer and inserted an encrypted USB drive. He had turned the laptop monitor so that Smiles could see.
Smiles saw that the screen was showing a highlight reel of General Business Machines being torn apart by a man with a thick neck and forehead villainous low. It could only be the Cromoglodon. The same Cromoglodon who, Director Smiles had told the world, was dead.
"You see why I am upset?" asked Buchanan.
Smiles tried, "No, I, uh, what is this?"
"This is the tax base of the great State of New Jersey being pulverized before your eyes. General Business Machines, the owner of that former facility, has been a great and patriotic supporter of this country."
And your re-election campaigns, thought Smiles.
"I backed you for this appointment, Smiles. You and your agency are supposed to stop this kind of thing, aren't you? We cannot let the American people suffer like this. Especially since your agency has ample funding with which to solve this problem. To say nothing of the fact that you told me this thing was dead."
"We can't be sure it's the Cromoglodon, Senator."
"Yes, we can," said the Senator as the screen showed an image of a small man dancing on the hood of a Town Car, enjoying the destruction as if it were a spectator sport. "That's Edwin Windsor's right hand half-man."
"But he's not wearing a costume," said Smiles weakly.
"You don't know a puppet by the costume, you know him by the strings," said Buchanan, "It appears Mr. Windsor is still very much in business. I want you to stop him."
"We don't have anyone stronger than the Cromoglodon, sir."
"You lied under oath. Of course, it's the kind of thing I do all the time. But you've got to be very careful about the kind of lies you tell. You told a lie that the American people will care about. You told them they were safe. And, clearly, they are not."
"But the Cromo—“
"No, Smiles, do not use that name. For if you use that name, all is lost."
"Lost?"
"You can never admit that this creature is alive. They will hate you for it. That's why I have held off on telling the world. That's why I have come to you." Buchanan said nothing and let Smiles shuffle uncomfortably in his own office.
"At first, I was upset," continued Buchanan. "Yet another problem for me to deal with. And the world is so full of problems. But then I realized, this one isn’t mine."
"No, sir."
"It's your problem."
Buchanan stood. Smiles inadvertently took a step backward as the fat man heaved his bulk out of the chair.
"I don't care how you run your agency, of course, but a suggestion: The problem is not the puppet. The problem is the puppet master." On-screen, the Cromoglodon swatted a wall away with a piece of steel I-beam. "He is not the problem," Buchanan said. "If he was on our side, he would be a solution. He's just a tool. Do not make the mistake of attacking the tool. Remember that Windsor is the problem.
"With some men, you win by breaking their spirit. Other men, by breaking their hearts. But with Edwin Windsor, I suggest hitting him in the wallet."
As his aide placed a thick file on Smiles' desk, Buchanan said, "This is the complete FBI workup on Edwin Windsor and his front company, Omdemnity Insurance. This is the only string I'm going to pull for you, Smiles. You can lock it down or hang for it. But from here on, it's on you."
And then he was gone. Leaving the Director to stare at the computer screen filled with scenes of destruction. In the background he saw the tiny figure of Topper, cheering his head off.
The wallet, thought Smiles, that’s one way. But as he stared at Topper, he thought of other ways. Little things are so easy to overlook. But if there was any sure thing Smiles knew it was this—even small men harbor great ambitions.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next morning, Topper tried telling himself that he wasn't going to go in to work at all. He thought he might barricade the doors, or hide in some other part of the city, so that the Adjustors would not find him. Of course this was a fantasy. The Adjustors had been created as precisely the kind of men who find what they seek. So Topper, in his strange logic, decided that he would settle for not going in with his chauffeur. But when Stevie hadn't shown up, Topper began to worry.
Did Edwin not want him there? Was he trying to do an end run around him? Did he think that Topper was so small and inconsequential that he could just ignore him? With that thought came a flash of anger that got him up and out of bed. Fine, thought Topper. If Edwin didn't want him there, he was just going to quit.
Topper thought a lot of passionate thoughts in any given day. So he didn't pay much attention to them. But as he stood underneath the shower, he was shocked to discover that he was serious about quitting.
"Ugh," he muttered to the shower, "this day is gonna suck."
Topper hated a lot of things. He hated rules. He hated responsibility. He hated work and almost everyone who was taller than he was. Most of all, he hated the suburbs. Why Edwin had seen fit to move his office out here, he would never know. Windsor Tower had been beautiful. Right in the heart of the city. A place where they shoveled the sidewalks in the winter. Where they employed men to open doors for you. Where you didn't have to dress like an Eskimo. The only thing Top
per hated more than the suburbs was winter.
He preferred to be chauffeured (while drunk) wherever he went. But when that wasn't possible, or when he needed to blow off some steam, he liked to drive fast. Very fast. Winter ruined that. So it was that he was babying his custom-built, massively supercharged Mini through the icy roads.
He loved his car, complete with special seat and pedal modifications for his size. His only disappointment was that the chassis wasn't big enough to mount machine guns, flamethrowers or oil slick dispensers.
Topper cursed as wheeled his car off the boulevard and into the entrance to Omdemnity's Corporate Campus. What an awful sight. How well-manicured. How controlled. How depressing.
Once, businesses built structures as medieval men built cathedrals. Testaments to beauty, progress and civilization. Like the Empire State Building, or the Chrysler Building. Now all they built were cube farms. Factories where the milk of human misery was extracted from animals kept in gray featureless pens designed to calm them during the slow and inexorable slaughter of what little spirit they had left.
Oh, sure, they did their best to disguise the corporate campii. They threw in a little landscaping and some architecture on the front. Maybe they touched up the lobby a little bit as well, but inside they were all the same. At the heart of every corporate campus were miles and miles of cubes. Stacked high and packed tight. The more cubes a company commanded, the more power it seemed to have. And maybe that was the way it worked.
As far as Topper was concerned, it had all changed when Omdemnity Insurance had moved into its own corporate campus. Sure, Edwin had been always been troubled by the loss of his long-time secretary Agnes. Even Topper hated to admit that he missed the proper old broad. But Edwin hadn't really gone off the deep end until the campus. Topper wasn't sure why it should be so, but the scale of the place, the lack of great arches and expanses of sky, seemed to diminish his tall friend.
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