by Nick Svolos
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Dedication
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
Excerpt
Awakening Mechanista
Other Novels by Nick Svolos
About the Author
THE POWER BROKER
Nick Svolos
© 2017 Nick Svolos
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions, contact the author at: www.NickSvolos.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
Once again, I need to thank my family for putting up with me and my writing compulsion. It can’t be easy putting up with a writer in the house, especially one with a penchant for crazy stories about superheroes and orks. Their love and support humbles me.
I also want to thank my friends and beta readers, who heroically waded through his story when it was still half-baked and whose input and insights made things better.
Finally, I'd like to thank Pastor Bill Hurst of the First Lutheran Church of Torrance, who helped me work through the stories about the Nephilim and hone a mad scientist’s scheme.
For my friends back in Los Angeles. I miss you guys.
I
It all started with breakfast. Lots of great things start with breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day, after all. I got up early and set to work in my tiny kitchenette, cooking up a quantity of bacon and eggs that, to a casual observer, would appear ridiculous. A dozen eggs and a full pound of bacon sizzled in two huge frying pans on my stove getting ready to join a half-dozen slices of toast and a pot of coffee. My girlfriend was sleeping peacefully in the bedroom of my little two-room apartment in the converted Seabreeze Motel in Santa Monica. She would be up soon, and I wanted to send her off with a nice breakfast before she had to face her Thursday morning commute to USC. Yeah, I’m a helluva guy.
Anyhow, it was a lot of food, but it wouldn’t go to waste. Helen could pack away about three times what I did without gaining an ounce.
Ever-mindful of the importance of quality control, I took a bite out of a piece of bacon and watched a morning news report on the television. A light rail train broke down near Ladera Heights during rush hour last night and I wanted to see if the TV news team caught anything I missed in my own report. The aerial shot showed a tall bald female in a white and blue Grecian-styled toga towing the One-oh-two train onto a set of maintenance tracks where an emergency crew was set up to evacuate the train. The woman, she goes by the name of Herculene, pulled the train to safety with slightly more effort than a child might pull a wagon. It was a clean operation and nobody got hurt, although they had a quick man-on-the-street with a guy complaining about being late for dinner. The TV cut to a commercial break and I switched it off.
“Mmm, that smells good,” a groggy voice approvingly noted from behind me. I turned from the stove to see Helen, arms crossed and leaning against the bedroom door jamb, wearing one of my shirts, just barely long enough to keep the scene PG-13, her long sleek legs enticingly filling the space from the shirt’s hem to the floor.
She stood about six foot two and was completely hairless, but trust me, it really didn’t matter. She’s blessed with a slender, athletic build, gorgeous features and flawless skin that most women would murder puppies for. Her sleepy eyes glittered mischievously and her lips favored me with a dazzling smile. It was an extremely distracting scene and I found myself considering actions that would make her late for work. I was a lucky man, and I knew it.
“Morning, gorgeous.” I grinned as she meandered over, gave me a kiss and poured herself a cup of joe, adding about half a cup of sugar before taking a sip.
“So, was that the train thing from last night?” she nodded at the now silent TV.
“Yep. Looks like Channel 5 is still on their anti-super kick. Seventy people there to interview and they air the one who’s got a grudge. At least they’re not blaming you for causing the breakdown this time.”
“Well, that’s a positive sign. At least there’s still one reporter in this town who’ll give us hard-working heroes a fair hearing.” Her pretty nose scrunched up and she took a sniff of the air. “Reuben, is your toilet backing up again?” I noticed it too, a foul smell, like raw sewage seasoned with rotting onions, overwhelming the bacon and eggs I was working on. The stench was soon joined by a knock at the door, and I groaned inwardly as I knew who I’d find on the other side. So much for my morning plans. I turned off the stove and gave the eggs one last scramble before heading for the door. Helen ducked back into the bedroom and closed the door. It wouldn’t be a good idea to have someone see Herculene, wearing nothing but a button-down Oxford, in my apartment. You know, secret identity and all that.
I opened my door to see a man in faded jeans, a flannel shirt and mis-matched tennis shoes standing outside my door like an itinerant beggar. Clear eyes regarded me from beneath a tangled mass of unkempt hair that worked its way down the sides of his gaunt features to merge with a similarly disheveled beard. The man and his clothes were obsessively clean, but despite his efforts at personal hygiene, the man stank. That was his power. He could incapacitate pretty much anything that breathes when he wanted it to. Even now, when he was clearly doing his best to restrain himself, the smell was almost overwhelming.
Panhandler’s had more than his fair share of hard living; one glance at him will tell you that. Though he was in his early twenties, he looked several years older. He was homeless. Nobody would rent an apartment to someone that smelled like him. Nobody would hire him, for the same reason, so he couldn't pay for the rent anyway. Like most homeless people, he was invisible. But Panhandler soldiered on. He was a hero, standing up for those at the bottom, the ones nobody else, not even the cops, protected. He considered it his Calling. He might be one of the noblest men I've ever met. But, damn, it was hard to get around that smell.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Conway,” the homeless hero said. “I think something bad’s happened and I don’t think anyone else can help me.”
It’s weird to have a superhero ask you for help. I mean, a penchant for solving your own problems is pretty much the primary motivation for becoming a vigilante. I wasn’t sure what a humble reporter could do to help, but if he was asking, there had to be a damned good reason. “Sure, man. Why don’t we go take a walk? My girlfriend’s still asleep and I don’t want to wake her,” I lied. I felt disgusted with myself for not inviting him in, but the last time I did that, it took two weeks and a case of fabric deodorizer to make my apartment livable again.
“Sounds good,” he agreed. He sniffed the air and his eyes brightened, “Say, is that bacon and eggs I’m smelling?” His gravelly voice conveyed a note of hopefulness, and I knew he was hungry. Naturals, superhumans like Panhandler and Herculene, who get their powers through genetic mutations rather than high-tech gizmos, ancient artifacts or whatever, are always hungry. Depending on their powers and activity level, they might need to consume twenty or thirty thousand calories a day. From the looks of his gaunt frame, Panhand
ler doesn’t get anywhere near that much.
“Yeah, let me get ya some.” I went back to the kitchenette and put some eggs and a couple strips of bacon on a large tortilla and wrapped it up in a burrito. I handed it to him as I left my apartment and closed the door.
“Thanks,” Panhandler said. “Soup kitchen was closed last night when I got back.”
He munched the breakfast burrito in silence as we walked down to the street and started heading west. I maneuvered myself so I was at least a little upwind of him and let him finish eating before asking, “So what’s going on?”
“Where to start?” he asked himself. “Well, couple a months back, this kid shows up at the camp. He’s in pretty bad shape. Shakin’, sick, hungry. I go ta check ‘im out and I guess I scared him. He backhands me, more by accident than anything else, and knocks me halfway to the pier. He runs after me, apologizing and askin’ if I’m hurt, but you know me, I’m fine. Takes more than a little love tap like that to put the ‘Handler down. Just a little surprised. Turns out he’s got powers and doesn’t know how to control ‘em. Family turned him out on the street. Same ol’ story. So anyways, I take the kid on and start trainin’ him. He was a quick study, too. Was comin’ along nicely, and I gotta say, it felt good ta have a sidekick. Especially one that’s super strong and could fly like he could. We was gettin’ some good work done.”
I felt a little embarrassed. “Wow, you have a sidekick? How have I not heard of this?”
Panhandler chuckled, “Sorry ‘bout that. I’ve been keepin’ things close to the vest. He’s just a kid, and ya never know. I figgered mebbe he’d wise up and decide this ain’t the life fer ‘im. Wanted ta leave him some options. ‘Sides, I didn’t need Family Services pokin’ around the camp ta shut me down on a child endangerment charge.”
I nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense.” A sudden thought hit me. “Say, that crew from Columbia you put down a couple weeks back. I remember thinking at the time that you must’ve had someone covering the back of the house.”
“Heh,” he chuckled. “Yeah, that was Karl.”
“Nice. That was a good bust.”
“Yep, not a bad night’s work, if I do say so myself. These foreign gangs always think the homeless community’s an easy place to set up shop. You’d think they’d learn.” He shrugged. “No big. Gives me somethin’ ta do.”
I felt like we were getting off-track so I led Panhandler back to the topic. “So, you were telling me about Karl…”
“Yeah, well, we been goin’ out on patrol most nights around eight. Sunday, he didn’t show. Ain’t seen ‘im since then, neither. Started getting worried about him, and I been out lookin’ for him ever since. Figgered maybe he went home and got back with his family, so I tried checking there. They wouldn’t talk to me, but I got the impression he wasn’t there. Checked the usual places street kids wind up, too, but nobody’s seen ‘im. I’m pretty much outta options at this point. I got nothin’. Was hopin’ maybe you’d help me out. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
“Hmmm. Have you tried the cops? Seems like a job for the missing persons unit.” Panhandler gave me a look like I had just suggested the most ridiculous thing ever. I nodded. “Yeah, OK. I guess a homeless kid going missing isn’t gonna be a high priority item. How ‘bout The Angels? They’re good people. I’m sure they’d help.”
His face reddened a bit and he looked away. “I’m sorry, Mr. Conway. I just can’t bring myself ta do that,” the hero said after a few seconds. “It’s hard ta ask fer help.”
“I see,” I said, even though I really didn’t. “Well, I’ll be happy to help, but I gotta wonder why you can ask me but not them.”
“You don’t look down on me,” he said simply.
I paused, stunned. Who the hell would look down on this guy? Life had dealt Panhandler a pretty shoddy hand, the type that would break most people. I had no illusions that it wouldn’t have broken me, but he’d turned it around. He was a hero. But, so were The Angels. I’d gotten to know LA’s resident superteam pretty well since I’d helped them on a case last summer. Hell, I was dating their newest recruit. For all their fame and high-tech gizmos, they were all pretty down-to-earth. I couldn’t imagine them treating this man with anything but respect. Maybe it was some sort of insecurity on the part of the homeless hero. When you considered how the guy lived, it was’t hard to see how he might have a few issues. Still, it was something I intended to follow up on. Maybe Helen would have some insight on the situation.
Getting back to business, I leaned back against a chain-link fence and pulled a notebook out of my shirt pocket. Clicking my pen, I asked, “OK, gimme what you got. What’s Karl’s last name?”
Panhandler, ever the soul of consideration, moved to stand downwind of me. “Jorgensen. His folks’ got a condo over on Stanford.” He gave me the address, and pulled out a battered smart phone. “Here, let me send ya a recent picture of ‘im.” I must have looked a bit surprised, because he added, “We got a guy at the camp that hands these out. Refurbished. Even has a generator to keep ‘em charged up when somebody brings him the gas.” He grinned. “Hey, even us bums gotta stay connected nowadays.”
My phone vibrated in my pocket, and when I pulled it out, I saw I had a text message with a picture of a kid, looked to be about fifteen, in a surf t-shirt and jeans. He had a tangled mop of blonde hair, the kind you get when you bathe in the ocean, and while he was smiling, there was a definite sadness in the cast of his eyes. It was only when I noticed that there was something wrong with his shadow that I realized he was hovering about two feet off the sandy ground. Panhandler was right about the kid being a quick study. From what I’ve been told, hovering is hard. This kid was making it look easy.
“Nice,” I said. “So, he flies, has super strength, anything else?”
“Naw, as far as I know that’s it. He’s young, though. He might have something that hasn’t shown itself yet.”
“Got it. How ‘bout a moniker? A costume? Anything that other people might know him by?”
He shook his head. “Naw, not yet. He wanted ta call himself ‘SuperAwesomeDude’, but I kinda steered him away from that. A handle like that, well, it sticks with a guy. ‘Sides, like I said, I wanted him ta keep a low profile. As fer costumes, we don’t have a lotta options at the beach. Pretty much go out in whatever we’re wearin’. He’s got a red bandana ta cover his face. Wears it like an old west bandit, you know?”
I nodded. Truth was, as long as they didn’t get knocked off, a bandana and a baseball cap were far more effective at protecting one’s secret identity than the little eye masks and skin tight hoods a lot of supers favored. In this age of facial recognition software, the less data points you left visible, the better.
“He’s a good kid, Mr. Conway, I’d hate to think somethin’ bad might have happened to him.”
I put the notebook away. “Yeah. Well, give me a few days to look around for him. No guarantees, but I’ll do what I can.” Truth be told, I was worried that I wasn’t going to have any better luck than Panhandler, but I did my best to keep that to myself. If nothing else, a second set of eyes never hurt. Plus, I did have access to a resource or two that the hero didn’t.
“Can’t ask for more than that.” He stuck out a meticulously clean hand. “Thanks, sir, I really appreciate it.”
I returned his grip with my own, “No problem. You take care, now.”
“You too.”
I watched the homeless hero head back to his tent city on the beach for a few moments before turning to jog the couple of blocks back to my comfortable apartment and beautiful girlfriend. Soon, I’d be at my dream job at the Beacon and he’d be risking his life to protect people nobody else cared about.
Like I said, I’m a lucky man, and I know it.
***
When I got back to my place, my windows and door were open and Helen had a fan blowing out into the former motel’s second story walkway. Despite her best efforts, a slight leftover funk of Panhandler’s visi
t remained. Somewhere between airing out my apartment and chowing down on the small mountain of breakfast I’d prepared, she’d managed to get dressed. She looked appropriately professorial in a light blue sweater, black blazer and skirt. She was a redhead before her powers manifested and took all her hair, and wore a wig that matched the color she had when she was a kid. False eyelashes and drawn on eyebrows completed her ensemble. She was munching the last piece of toast as she gathered her things to leave.
“Oh, good, you’re back. Didn’t want to leave the place open like this, but I gotta go. I’m supposed to be lecturing in an hour.”
She stepped close and I wrapped my arms around her slim waist. “No prob. Thanks for airing the place out.”
“Glad to,” she said as she draped her arms around my neck. “So that’s Panhandler, huh?”
“Yep. I take it you’ve never met him?”
“Nope. My gosh, that smell. Does he come here… very often?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Naw. He just needed my help with something.”
Her false eyebrows raised. “Oh, what’s wrong?”
“Missing person case. His protege.” I shrugged. “He’s run out of options, cops won’t do anything about it, so I guess I’m his best bet at this point.”
She grinned. “Help me Reubi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope!”
“Heh, yeah, something like that.”
“Anything I can help with?”
I showed her the picture of the missing kid on my phone and quickly gave her the abbreviated version of Panhandler’s account as I emailed her a copy. She frowned at the story. “Geez, poor kid. I’ll pass it around. Never hurts to have more eyes on the street.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” I smiled. “See you tonight?”
She frowned. “‘Fraid not. I’m on duty for the next couple of nights. Call you tonight, OK?”
“Sounds good.”
