by Matt Cowper
Dak laughed. It sounded like the screech of a bird of prey. “It seems like I have struck a nerve, as you mortals say – actually, I am certain I have struck many nerves, for I am the God of Destruction, and I strike nerves when it pleases me.”
“Oh…OK,” Julia said. “I’m sorry if I got your God Arm angry.”
“It’s not your fault at all,” I said. “He’s always angry. I should be the one who’s apologizing.”
I ushered Julia out of the office and nodded to Erna. “Miss Tuppingham here will get the paperwork going, while I have a word with Dak.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll get on it right now!” Miss Tuppingham chirped. “I’m opening up the documents we have saved here on this computer even as we speak!”
Julia sat down on one of the metal folding chairs to wait, and I ducked back into my office and closed the door. I wondered if I should take a swig of the Neo Jack Daniels I had stashed in my desk drawer to give my mind a jolt, but decided against it. It would probably be better to be stone cold sober as I talked to Dak.
“How many times have I told you not to interrupt client meetings?” I said, pounding my desk. The pens and papers jumped, and a cloud of dust rose from the surface.
“I will make my godly pronouncements when I see fit,” Dak rumbled.
“If you piss off enough clients, I’ll be living under an overpass, using a cigarette lighter to cook Beenie Weenies! Is that what you want?”
“That would actually be amusing.”
I sighed and slumped down in my chair.
“Alright, Dak, let’s get on the same page,” I said. “You can be flippant all you want, but there’s going to be a lot of destruction in this case – I can feel it. That’s what you want, right?”
“Of course. I am destruction incarnate.”
“Then how about let’s not piss off the client, huh? That thing you said about her husband being destroyed? Uncalled for. I’m just glad she was so flustered she didn’t think to comment on it.”
“I do not know if I should believe you, John Wagner,” Dak rumbled. “I wanted to destroy those bank robbers earlier, and you denied me. You say this case will have much destruction, but your poisoned words are covered in honey.”
“Dak, you’ve got a short memory,” I said, shaking my head. “Remember the QWERTY case? This is the same thing.”
The sound of boulders cracking and fires burning as Dak considered.
“Yes, I remember that case,” Dak finally rumbled. “If we will encounter similar destruction, I am ‘all in,’ as you mortals say.”
“Good. After we finish up with Mrs. Anderson, we’ll get going.”
“Where will we be traveling first?”
“I need to have a chat with our old friend Burt Harrison,” I said. “I’m sure my inside man has some dirt he can shovel our way.”
Chapter Three
“We always meet in the most high-class places,” I said, kicking an empty beer can that had been bleached by the elements.
“Stow it, Johnny,” Burt Harrison said. “I put up with enough shit from Woodruff, I don’t need to hear your uninspired quips.”
“I mean, I know you want secrecy, but couldn’t we meet in a park, or somewhere not filthy?”
“I said stow it, Johnny.”
We were standing in an alley by the old hotdog factory, trying to keep our shoes from being ruined by the foul-smelling sludge that had puddled in the cracks and low points. Two trash bags sat near us, their linings ripped open to reveal a smorgasbord of rot. A few rats scurried around, looking at us like we were foreigners who needed to be deported. The air was as thick as cement; any breeze that found its way down here would die before it reached the end of the alley.
Even if a breeze decided to flutter by now, Burt would probably scrunch up his nose and say it smelled too pure. He was a thin, weaselly-faced man with the social graces of a Bootheel garbage man. He wore cheap suits that were two sizes too big and aluminum cuff links the size of hubcaps. Everything about him screamed “underling,” but Burt was actually pretty crafty, once you got past the woe-is-me bullshit and the passive-aggressiveness.
“What’s Woodruff up to now?” I asked.
“Same old shit,” Burt said. “Wants everyone in the Division of Superhuman Crime to work twenty-hour days to prep these cases, gives these little speeches about how helpful everyone is, which just perks everyone right up – but then he’s holding twenty press conferences a day while I’m trying to figure out what to do with the racketeering Weeva spores we’ve locked up in a petri dish.”
“Don’t we have treaties that say—”
“I know all about the damned treaties,” Burt said, “but what do you do when the Weeva Royal Family claims these spores are inbred – whatever that means – and that we need to hand them over so they can be purified, treaties be damned?”
“You got me.”
“Exactly, so don’t give me any guff. I’m already skipping my lunch break to meet with you, so let’s get to it.”
“Shit, I didn’t know you were skipping your bologna sandwich to meet up. Mama Harrison is gonna be mad you aren’t eating right. If I tell her, do you think she’ll ground you?”
“This is me walking away,” Burt said. And he started to do just that: he turned on his heel, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and marched towards the end of the alley, stepping carefully to avoid the sludge.
I jogged a few steps and grabbed his arm. “Alright, I’m sorry. There’s nothing wrong with living with your mom at age thirty-three.”
“You know, I could—” Burt began.
“Do not leave until our discussion has ended, Burt Harrison,” Dak rumbled, “or you will suffer mightily. I will turn this arm, this essence of myself, into a razor-sharp blade, and John Wagner will slice off your legs painfully and permanently.”
I covered my face with my hand. “Dak, what did I tell you about interrupting?”
“I am simply trying to help, by destroying,” Dak said. “I do not see why we need this impotent schemer anyway. We can simply wreak havoc through the underworld until we find all the information we need.”
“Oh, I’m an impotent schemer, huh?” Burt said, trying to wrench free from my grip.
“Don’t get all offended,” I said. “You know how Dak is.”
“Yes, he does,” Dak rumbled. “I am the antithesis of creation, of life, of—”
“Enough, Dak,” I said. “Look, this case is big. Help me out.”
“I know it’s big,” Burt said. “That’s why I sent Julia to you – well, not directly, but you know how I use the ol’ reverse psychology.”
I said nothing.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Burt said. “Client confidentiality. I know it’s her. Who else could it be?”
“Anyone could’ve hired me,” I said, “but let’s move this along. You know Gray Squirrel ain’t your guy, and deep down you don’t want to see an innocent man go to prison. Give me something I can use.”
“Fine,” Burt said. He snatched his arm away, but he didn’t try to leave. “As you know, Woodruff’s locked in on Gray Squirrel. He’s got the traffic video, he’s got eyewitnesses, he’s got a long-running feud between Captain Neptune and Squirrel. Who cares what the bomb was made out of or what Neptune’s widow thinks?”
“What was the bomb made out of?” I asked. “On the video, there’s a blue flash.”
“It was null-raxite,” Burt said flatly.
“Dammit,” I said, feeling the hairs stand up on my neck. “I thought so. That material could knock a hole in The Power. Null-matter combined with one of the most unstable minerals in the galaxy—”
“—means whoever gets caught in the blast dies. Period.”
“Have you guys traced the bomb?” I asked.
“Of course. The dishwasher down at Vinnie’s Steakhouse made it in his basement. What the hell do you think, have we traced it? Woodruff isn’t even trying.”
“Well, let’s brainstorm. Who has access
to this stuff? It ain’t easy to get, I know that.”
“You want heroes or villains?”
“Is there a difference?”
Burt chuckled. “Most days there isn’t. OK, let’s start with the good guys: the Elites have some null-raxite stashed up in the Beacon, but if one of them made that bomb….”
“Maybe Professor Perfection or someone made one, but it was stolen.”
“Stolen from the Beacon? Has a microwave laser fried your brain?”
“OK, not likely, I admit. What about lesser-tiered superheroes?”
“Most of the average heroes avoid the stuff. Too nasty. I remember one guy, he tried to make a power ring out of some null-raxite, but that didn’t go so well. He ended up looking like these puddles here.”
“Villains, then?”
“C’mon, Johnny, every villain wants to get their diabolical claws on some null-raxite.”
“But few of them have the money or the connections to buy the material, or the scientific expertise to create it. It had to have come from one of the big names.”
“Originally yes, but someone could’ve stolen it from one of the big kahunas, or purchased it and then moved it through about ten million middle-men so no one could trace it.”
I paced around the alley, thinking. “So we’ve got nothing. Guess I’ll have to tear through Bootheel to get the information I need.”
“Then let us be off,” Dak rumbled. “I grow weary of this endless spewing of words.”
“In a minute, Dak,” I said.
“I wish I had a Null-Raxite Owners Directory I could peruse,” Burt asked. “but I don’t. And even if I did, I’m up to my eyeballs in zeta beams and lambda beams. Superhuman crime never stops.”
“I get it, you’re busy. I’ll track down the bomb-maker myself, even if I have to pummel every thug in Bootheel,” I said, with more bluster than sense – I had no idea where to begin this null-raxite scavenger hunt. “What else you got for me? What about Gray Squirrel? What’s he say about all this?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? He’s gone mute?”
“Isn’t that what I said?” Burt snapped. “He hasn’t uttered word one since we took him into custody.”
“But…why? If he killed Captain Neptune on purpose, wouldn’t he want to gloat? And if he’s been set up, he’d want to clear his name, right?”
“The guy dressed up as an eastern fucking gray squirrel, and you want me to psychoanalyze him?”
“Yeah, he’s a wacko, but to just go silent….” I ran my hand through my hair. “I need to talk to him.”
“No way, no how. Woodruff watches Ironrock Island like a hawk, and Squirrel’s appointed lawyer will raise holy hell if—”
“C’mon, Burt,” I said. “You can get around your boss, and these public defenders are all schmucks who don’t care how the case goes; they’re too afraid of Woodruff. Tell this lawyer I’m a psychiatrist, that I’ll interview Squirrel and then use a bunch of big words at the trial to make it seem like the defense is making an effort. We can use one of my alter egos: an Englishman named Reginald Fairfield, MD. Got a fake ID, fake résumé, the whole works.”
“Oh, aren’t you slick?” Burt said. “Why don’t you tell Squirrel’s lawyer yourself? Am I supposed to do everything for you?”
“It’ll have more weight coming from you,” I said. “Make it seem like Woodruff approves, but don’t say anything definitive. Just give me ten minutes with Squirrel, that’s all I ask.”
“So you can use the Johnny Wagner charm on the guy? Works every time, huh?”
“It worked on your sister.”
Burt’s eyes widened and he clenched his fists. He stepped forward, not caring that his shoe splatted in some ooze.
“Mention my sister one more time,” he snarled, “and I rearrange your jaw.”
“Threaten my host again,” Dak rumbled, his titanic voice bouncing off the alleyway’s bricks, “and I will tear those trembling little fists from your puny arms and make you eat your own stringy flesh.”
“Alright, maybe that’s a bit much,” I said, “but you know this is a fight you don’t want, Burt.”
“I don’t know any such thing,” Burt said, still seething. “I only know you insulted my sister.”
“I didn’t insult her. I liked your sister. Really.”
“You dumped her, broke her heart.”
“That’s revisionist history if I’ve ever heard it,” I said. “She ran off with someone in that Cthulhu’s Nutsack biker gang.”
“Only because you broke her heart.”
“OK, label me the bad guy if you want,” I said, holding up my hands in what I hoped was a peaceful gesture, “and I apologize for needling you – again – but I still need to talk to Gray Squirrel.”
Burt chewed this over – for a long damn time. I was about to tell him to hurry up with his mental mastication when his sister’s-honor-protecting glare subsided, and he nodded.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Burt said. “I may be able to get you in there. But if I do, Woodruff will get wind of it, and he’ll cut through your psychiatrist alter ego horse manure in about two seconds flat. You’ll be added to his very long hit list.”
“That perfectly-white smile of his won’t work on me,” I replied, “and he can’t threaten me with anything. What about you? Won’t you end up on that hit list too?”
“I can make up some excuse, say you duped me, but you’re a PI, and he hates PIs. He’ll find a way to do you in, believe me.”
“Let me handle that. You just get me into that jail.”
“If it’s doable, you’ll hear from me,” Burt said, stepping away.
“Thanks, Burt.”
“Don’t mention it. And I mean that – don’t mention it. I’m getting an ulcer doing this secretive crap. I’ll be in the grave by age forty at this rate.”
He walked down the alley, stepping gingerly to protect his one clean shoe, and turned onto the sidewalk, disappearing from view.
“He is the epitome of weakness,” Dak rumbled. “His very presence caused my godhood to bristle and snarl. I see why he wanted to meet in this putrid alley: it mirrors his begrimed, oleaginous existence.”
“Don’t knock him too hard, Dak,” I said. “His information is invaluable. Without eyes and ears in DSC, I’d be up shit creek without a paddle.”
“Why would you be in a creek of shit? Is this another one of your ridiculous human expressions?”
“Yeah, it is,” I said. “Us mortals love our wordplay.”
I raised my God Arm, took off my glove, and aimed at a nearby trash bag. Three rats were nibbling on some foul substances that they’d ripped out of the bag, quite at home and believing themselves safe from any sluggish humans.
“You up for some destruction, buddy?” I asked. “I can feel you getting antsy.”
“I would rather destroy the large rodent that just left,” Dak rumbled, “but these vermin will satiate me for a few minutes.”
“How are you gonna dispatch them?” I asked. “It’s up to you.”
“I am in the mood for lightning.”
My hand started glowing white and blue, with jagged bolts shooting across my palm and fingers. I felt the surge of energy as Dak warmed up – and then a crackling white bolt of lightning shot from my palm and struck the trash bag. The bag exploded, sending its rank contents flying around the alley. I dodged the airborne nastiness as best I could, but a soggy piece of bread still smacked me in the ear and a plastic container bounced off my knee.
After the air was clear of debris, I looked over at the spot we’d blasted. Tendrils of smoke rose from the scorched pavement, and the three rats were laying there belly-up, a few flames flickering on their dead bodies.
“As many rats as we kill,” I said, “the city should pay us for rodent control.”
“That powerful bolt of lightning deserved to be employed in a more destructive way,” Dak rumbled, “but three rats are still dead, and that pleases Dakrot
h’gannith’formaz.”
“That’s great,” I said. When Dak was pleased, I was pleased – the “happier” he was, the less random property damage he’d cause.
“Where are we to venture next, John Wagner?” Dak asked.
“First, I’m gonna grab a sammich at Mario’s Deli,” I said. “Then we’re gonna go have a chat with Netmaster. I need him to check out a few things.”
“Ah yes. I do enjoy visiting the Master of Net. He does many illegal things, and ‘trolls’ a multitude of foolish people, to use a mortal term.”
I didn’t want to argue about the legality of Netmaster’s services, so I kept quiet. Yeah, I sometimes cut corners, but I always did it to expedite a case, not to deliberately hurt someone.
Some people would disagree, but those people weren’t in my life anymore, and I was better off for it.
Or so I told myself….
Chapter Four
“Hyper RAM, getcha Hyper RAM right here!” a grungy street vendor called out. “The real deal, dudes and dudettes, custom made right here in Bootup! Bring your computer up to speed – light speed! I got 500 gigabyte cards on up to 1 terabyte!”
I glanced briefly at the vendor’s wares laid out on a table covered with a “HAXORS HACK” sheet. It would be nice to “bring my computer up to light speed,” but I needed to pay off my many debts before purchasing any high-end tech – including what I owed Netmaster, the guy I was going to see right now.
I was walking through the tech section of Bootheel, down by the river. Some people, like the vendor, claimed this area was its own mini-borough, and called it Bootup, Bootstrap, Bootheel 2.0, B007h33l, and a half-dozen other hip techie names. I preferred Bootup myself.
If you needed tech, you could find it here – it just took some searching, and a bit of courage. This wasn’t one of Professor Perfection’s Perfect Buy stores, where everything was arranged neatly on shelves and well-dressed, clean-cut staff members smilingly assisted you. This was a place where programmers quaffed Overdrive Juice by the gallon to fuel hundred-hour coding blitzes, where supervillains built and fine-tuned battle-suits in dank warehouses, where gamers had taken over entire blocks with holographic equipment so they could play Gunslingerz, where even the dogs and cats had cybernetic eyes and limbs.
