by Nick Svolos
It turned out to be a large, boxy piece of gear, surrounded by an aluminum structure about the size of a desk. At its center was a large metallic sphere to which was connected a number of wires, pipes and a panel of blinking lights.
Mentalia was the first to speak. “Is that what I think it is?”
SpeedDamon sped off with a cloud of sand and wind trailing behind him, returning a few seconds later with a Geiger counter. He walked around the apparatus, waving the wand over the strange device before announcing, “It’s clean, whatever it is.” He sped off to check the other robots.
“Well, that is a relief,” Suave said as he moved in close to get a better look. “In answer to your question, Mentalia, I believe it’s the power source.”
“Christ,” she muttered, taking a few steps back from the apparatus. “You think it’s nuclear?”
Now that we knew it at least wasn’t leaking radiation, I moved in close to the device. “Could be some sort of fusion reactor. Lockheed’s been working on one that’s about the size of a refrigerator.” Something towards the bottom of the assembly looked like a stencil, and I got down on the ground and started brushing sand from the surface.
“You a nuclear physicist, too?” I heard her ask.
Herculene chuckled. “He reads a lot.”
“Well, these things weren’t running on D cells,” I added as I got the last of the sand off the casing. I was right. There was some stenciled text on the surface, but I couldn’t read it. At first I thought they might be Chinese, but then I realized they weren’t. I snapped a quick photo of the text. “Does anyone know how to read Korean?”
“I know a little,” Ultiman replied. I should have guessed. He’d served in the 807th Enhanced Airborne Company during the Korean War. Back then, he’d been known as Major Justice. He was a lot older than he looked. I moved out of the way to let him take a look.
“Hmmm. Something here about Helium ... this is odd….” He lifted the assembly by one corner with the same amount of effort I would use to lift a box of cereal. He nodded and set it back down. “This is North Korean,” he announced, triggering baffled reactions all around.
“How can you tell?” Three Dollar Bill asked.
“Some of their words are spelled differently in the North.”
“What the hell is Glorious Leader thinking?” Bill asked. “Is he trying to start a war?”
“Good question, but this does not quite make sense,” Suave observed. “How could these things get here? Surely they did not walk across the sea bottom.”
SpeedDamon began to rev up. “Maybetheyhadashiporsomething. I’llgotakealook.” He took off, running on the surface of the ocean and kicking up a rooster tail of agitated water in his wake. He returned a second later, called out something, and then he was off again, leaving a green streak that soon disappeared over the horizon.
Herculene shook her head. “Did anyone get that? All I could make out was something about the National Guard.”
Mentalia laughed. “Hell, no. Sounds like a damned chipmunk to me.”
“If they ever make a movie about us,” Suave added, “We should not let his character have many speaking lines.”
Ultiman sighed. “SpeedDamon said we might have as little as an hour before the National Guard arrives to take these robots into custody.”
Mentalia’s eyes widened. “You understand that speed talk gibberish?”
“Of course not,” her leader replied, pointing at his ear. “Archangel records what he says and plays it back to me at normal speed.” Judging by the team’s laughter, I took it that none of them had thought of this. It was a good bet that they’d all have similar arrangements set up by the end of the day.
Ultiman brought the assembly back to order. “We should get back to work. Mentalia, do you think you can transport this device back to the Tower?”
“Sure,” she replied and stepped away to place a call to Dr. Austin.
“Excellent. Suave and Bill, please go with her. There will probably be a number of inquiries to respond to, and I would like you to handle them. I anticipate an irate call from the government when they learn we took one of the reactors.”
“Got it,” Bill said as he and Suave moved off to join Mentalia in the telekinetic bubble she projected around the salvaged reactor. The purple tinged sphere rose smoothly into the air and headed downtown.
Ultiman turned to Herculene. “I hate to ask this of you on your day off, but I would like to track down the Lords and learn why we received no warning from them about this attack. Would you mind holding down the fort here? I will have SpeedDamon relieve you once he completes his sweep.”
“Sure, no problem,” she said with a curt nod. She turned to me. “Sorry, hon. Can I catch up with you later on?”
“Hey, duty calls. I’ll just head home. I gotta write this story up anyways. Want me to stash your civilian clothes somewhere?”
She shook her head. “Too risky. Besides, it would spoil my grand exit. Just make sure your bathroom window is unlocked.”
“Mr. Conway,” Ultiman broke in, “are you going to report the link to North Korea?”
“I kind of have to, unless there’s a really good reason not to. Care to make a statement?”
While he thought about it, I activated a recorder app on my phone.
“Please tell your readers that, while we did find North Korean markings on the power source, I think it would be premature to leap to a conclusion. There are several reasons to believe a third party may be involved.”
“And those are?”
“It is unlikely these machines made their own way here, fifty-five hundred miles across the floor of the Pacific Ocean. I expect to confirm this with the Lords of Atlantis. If they came via ship, SpeedDamon will find it by the time you finish your story. Any vessel big enough to transport these machines will be too slow to escape. Finally, this force is too small to be an invasion. In fact, other than causing some property damage, I cannot imagine what this attack was intended to accomplish. I encourage the public to remain calm and give the authorities time to investigate this matter. The Angels stand ready to assist in any way we can.”
“So, I take it you don’t believe the North Koreans did this?”
“Off the record?”
“Sure.” I terminated the recording.
“No. For all his saber-rattling, Glorious Leader would never sanction a stunt like this, even if he had the technology, which he does not.”
“You seem pretty sure of that.”
“I watch him very carefully, Mr. Conway,” he said. He rose in the air and flew off. He headed southwest.
I’d heard the Lords have a base on Santa Barbara island, but I’d always considered it just a rumor. The Lords of Atlantis pretty much kept to themselves. They seemed to travel around quite a bit, content to get stoned and follow the surf season around the Pacific, but occasionally they popped up to put an end to an illegal whaling operation or a band of pirates and then disappeared back into the ocean before anyone could get a chance to interview them. Still, I guess if anyone would know how to find them, it would be Ultiman.
“Well, ‘citizen’, I guess you’ll need to be heading off,” Herculene said with a wink.
I returned her wink as I picked up our gear. “Yes, ma’am. Got a lot of citizening to do. See ya tonight.”
Trudging back through the sand towards the parking lot, I reviewed the photos on my phone. They weren’t as good as what I could have gotten with the Nikon, but they looked pretty decent. I called up the Beacon and let them know I’d be filing the piece soon. The editor on duty sounded thrilled at the news and told me he’d save some space on the front page.
My elation at scoring a front page story faded when I got about three quarters of the way to the parking lot. I faced a wall of people held back by annoyed-looking policemen. The officers were annoyed because of the small horde of irate reporters demanding to get past them. The reporters were irate because I was down there interviewing The Angels
and they weren’t. We’re competitive like that. Adding to the chaos was another small horde of citizens. Some were scared and demanding to know what was going on but most just wanted to take a selfie with a giant robot.
I mean, come on. Who wouldn’t want to take a selfie with a giant robot? I regretted not thinking to take one myself.
VI
It took forever to get to my truck and get out of there. For starters, there were questions from the plainclothes detective who drew the short straw and wound up spending his Saturday getting sand in his shoes while trying to maintain control of the scene. He had good reason to be irritable, but he wasn’t all that hard to deal with. Once I gave him an account of what happened, the main thing he was concerned with was when the wreckage was going to be removed, and I managed to escape him once the National Guard showed up.
My fellow newshounds were another matter. We’re a persistent lot and it’s a competitive business. I think a couple were already a little stung by my scoop with the Protest Girl story, and to find I’d beaten them to this story probably didn’t help much. The questions came from all directions at once, and I tried not to look smug as I told them they’d have to wait for my story to come out. I couldn’t blame them for trying, but I wasn’t about to give up an exclusive like this. Harry’d kill me. There were a couple of questions that had more of an edge to them, like how I happened to be here and how I’d gotten so chummy with The Angels. I plead dumb luck on both accounts, but I’m not sure if anyone bought it.
After running the gauntlet of microphones and cameras, I managed to make it to my truck and get out of there without running anyone over. Once back at my place, I went straight to work, uploading Ultiman’s statement to the Beacon’s website and starting my first draft of the story.
There’s a process to writing a news story. I start by typing in the facts. Nothing fancy, just a list. Then I build out from there, adding just enough text to establish context. Then I shift to editing. I usually read it out loud to myself and fix any areas my tongue trips over. I repeat this part of the process until it flows cleanly, and then I stop. It’s done. If there’s any more editing to be done, the editor will let me know about it. Anything I could do at this point would be wasted effort. This process lets me get a piece written quickly, but it also keeps me from straying from the facts and wandering into conjecture. Conjecture belongs on the Op-Ed page. Too many people in my business forget that.
I sent the story and photos off to the editor, got his feedback, and was working on the revisions he requested when I heard Herculene climb in through my bathroom window. She couldn’t resist making a Beatles reference. “Wish I’d thought to bring a silver spoon along, you know, for protection.”
“Shush,” I said, playing along with the gag. “I’m on the phone with Tuesday.”
“Sorry, nobody told me.” She grinned, grabbing some civilian clothes and her wig before ducking back into the bathroom. Showering noises emitted from behind the closed door. She emerged a few minutes later, looking as lovely as ever in her jeans and a USC t-shirt. She came around behind me and gently hugged my neck as she gave me a quick kiss on the ear. “How do you feel about ordering in some Chinese food tonight?”
“I thought we were going out. Didn’t you want to try that new Italian joint?”
“I did, until I spotted the Paparazzi outside your building.”
“What?” A chill gripped me. Other than Mike Wallace kicking in your door followed closely by a 60 Minutes cameraman, hungry stringers, hot on the trail of salacious gossip, are about the scariest people in the business.
“Two guys, separate cars. Cheap clothes, expensive cameras. They’re parked on the street across from your building with a vantage point on your door.”
“Oh, please tell me you’re pranking me.” I got up and peeked out the bedroom window. She wasn’t. Down on the street, the scene was laid out just like she said. This was bad news. For the most part, Helen managed to keep her ID a secret with just a wig because, as she puts it, “People are pretty shallow. They see a pretty girl with nice hair and clothes and they focus on that. It’s about as far as they get. It’s not like they see Herculene and then see me right after. As long as there’s nothing to draw the connection, they don’t come to it on their own.”
Well, there was a connection now, or at least there would be if someone got some photos of me walking out of my apartment with a statuesque red-headed hottie after a very public association with her superteam. “Damn,” I muttered and closed the blinds. I whispered, “Did you happen to see if they had directional microphones?”
“Don’t sweat it.” She chuckled and shook her head. “We haff vays to fool ze press. Maybe I can finally make you replace that old couch.”
“Huh?” For the life of me, I couldn’t see how my ratty old Salvation Army couch factored into this.
She looked deliciously self-satisfied at my bafflement as she sat down on the edge of the bed. “What, you think I’m the first superchick to get trapped in her boyfriend’s apartment? If they’re still there tomorrow, we have some guys who’ll come out and deliver a new couch. They throw a sheet over the old one and smuggle me out. Easy peasy.” She thought for a moment. “I wonder if they have a coffee table that will fit your place. Two birds with one stone.”
“Now just you wait a second, there. I’m willing to sacrifice Brown Betty for the cause, if I have to, but Spooly? Never!” I said in mock outrage. I knew she hated my furniture, and yeah, I pretty much lived like a starving college student, but I kind of liked using that old cable spool as a table. It made me feel, I don’t know, Bohemian.
She held up her hands in surrender. “OK, I give. Seriously, you name your furniture?”
I laughed. “No, I just made that up for comedic effect.”
“Hmm, don’t quit your day job. Anyhow, you’re precious spool is probably safe. With any luck, those guys will get bored and move on to someone else by morning. But, this does pose a problem for us.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re not gonna be able to be seen in public for a while, are we?”
“For a little while,” she agreed. “But that’s OK. Staying in can be fun, too.” She grinned devilishly, giving me The Look and patting the open space next to where she sat on my bed. “You, uh, about done with that article you’re working on?”
***
I’d been trying to develop the habit of running in the morning, and since I’d failed to do this on Friday and Saturday, I forced myself out of bed and out to the street bright and early on Sunday. Back when I was on the run from Longshot, I was horrified by how quickly I tired, how slowly I moved. I ran track in high school, but in the almost twenty years since then I’d pretty much let all that conditioning go. I’ve never had a problem with my weight, but for a guy whose only reasonable survival mechanism is to run like hell, not being good at it was an unacceptable risk.
Killing two birds with one stone, I covered the neighborhood, keeping an eye out for paparazzi and taking a good look in every car and doorway I passed. True to Helen’s prediction, they seemed to be gone, but I like to be thorough. Once I was satisfied, I finished my miles listening to music and chuckling at the memory of the Japanese cartoons Helen made me watch the night before. Last night was her turn to choose, and she’s nuts about anime. We watched something that was about a high school full of confused teens behaving in ways that made absolutely no sense. Oh yeah, apparently they all fought demons with magic swords, too. The only thing I really understood was that Japanese high schools are the most dangerous places in the universe.
When I got back to my apartment, Helen was up and just starting to cook breakfast, leaving me enough time for a quick shower before joining her for a hearty stack of pancakes. “So, what’s your plan for today?” Helen asked before digging into a stack of flapjacks big enough to require a building permit.
“I was thinking of following up on Karl Jorgensen. Maybe check out the building where they found him. Care to come with?”
“I’d love to, but the team’s called me in. We’re short-handed, and there’s a couple of new players in town causing trouble.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“Well, one guy crashed into a jewelry store last night and made off with a bunch of shinies. Very sloppy job, from what they tell me, but at least nobody got hurt. Then, there’s another guy who spent his Saturday night messily killing a few low-level drug dealers. Your buddy Dawson actually made an official request for our help.”
“Good for him,” I said. “Not many cops would do that.”
“Mmhmm,” she muffled, swallowing a bite. “Kinda glad to have an opportunity to build some bridges with his team. Anyhow, Ultiman’s still out looking for the Lords, and SpeedDamon is combing the coastline. He didn’t find a boat, so he figures he might find some giant robot tracks somewhere.”
“Wow, busy day for the good guys.”
“No kidding. It’s like, now that Omega’s finally gone, a whole new batch of crazies are crawling out of the woodwork. Makes me wonder if they put something in the water.”
We finished breakfast and teamed up to wash the dishes. I went out under the pretext of checking the oil in my truck to make sure the coast was clear of newshounds. After Helen set off to save the city, I went online to check the address I found in Karl’s belongings. It was one of three buildings downtown that made up the forty-year-old Jefferson Plaza housing project. From what I could find out about it from articles and comments online, it was run by the county but funding ran out several years ago and the complex was left to fall into disrepair. It was slated for demolition as soon as someone found enough money to pay for it. Then they’d probably put up another housing project and the cycle would repeat.
I grabbed a dark grey hoodie out of my closet and drove on out to take a look at the place. It was in a lousy part of town, and the Jefferson Plaza was the putrid crown jewel festering at its center. Tall, dark and ugly, the trio of eight-story tenements stood side-by side along Flower Street, taking up an entire block. The perimeter around the buildings was cordoned off by a rusting chain link fence, torn in several places and completely knocked down in a few others. Garbage and discarded furnishings were piled in confused jumbles, competing for space with junkies and squatters. All it needed was a few flaming barrels and some improvised body armor and it could be a set from a post-apocalyptic action movie.
