by Jaide Fox
Clark zipped up his laptop, then swung his flashlight to the front and rear. "Which way do you think?"
Blossom closed her eyes and pointed. "That way."
Clark clipped the flashlight onto his belt and put his arm around her waist. "Ready when you are," he said.
* * * *
Saturday, 11:46 p.m.
Fourteen minutes, and counting...
"Ah, Clark. I knew they would send you."
Lex’s voice was casual, but the way his fingers stroked the buttons and levers on his futuristic-looking control panel was anything but. Clark swallowed hard. He’d hoped to defuse the bomb before Lex noticed anything was amiss. Unfortunately, after three frustrating hours of bouncing through caves and tunnels like human ping pong balls, Blossom had finally landed them right at Lex’s feet. Within seconds, they’d found their arms stretched overhead, restrained by robotically controlled shackles. And not just your regular, everyday, run of the mill titanium shackles, either. No. Lex had imprisoned Clark with...
"Magnets," Lex said, sounding inordinately pleased with himself. "Your one weakness. Your psychic computer tampering powers are useless, Clark."
Clark supposed it was better than materializing in bedrock, but not by much.
"Only a few minutes until detonation," Lex said, squinting up at the foot-high digital clock on the wall above his head.
11:48:23 Eleven minutes, thirty-seven seconds and counting. And Clark was strung up like a side of beef, powerless to stop humanity’s destruction.
Lex chuckled as his fingers danced over the control panel. "We’ll want to watch, of course." He pushed a button and a picture appeared on the flat screen overhead. Downtown Megalopolis, bustling with nighttime activity.
"You don’t want to go through with this, Lex," Clark said.
Lex ran a hand over his bald head. "Why not?" He seemed genuinely puzzled.
Clark eyed his laptop, lying useless on the floor at his feet. "Say your scheme is successful. Say you kill everyone in the world. What will you do for fun when there’s no one left to terrorize?"
Lex’s brows drew in. "A good point," he said, tapping his finger against his lips. "I didn’t consider that." He laughed. "I guess I’ll have to keep your girlfriend. That should be amusing."
Clark felt Blossom go stiff beside him. "Not an option," he told Lex. "You’d have to kill me first."
Lex smiled broadly. "That can be arranged." He reached under the counter and drew out a small caliber pistol. He leveled it at a point midway between Clark’s eyes.
Beads of sweat broke out on Clark’s forehead.
The trigger cocked.
"No," Blossom whispered.
"Oh, yes, yes, yes!" Lex said with an evil, maniacal laugh.
Clark’s closed his eyes and braced for the end, a sharp sense of failure slicing through him. Some superhero he turned out to be. He should have let Bruce handle this one. Maybe then, humanity would’ve had a chance.
The gun’s blast sounded in his ears. Clark’s body went rigid, waiting for the pain.
It didn’t come.
What the...?
He opened his eyes, then blinked to clear his vision. Lex Loser was sprawled on the ground, unconscious, his gun loose in his fingers. Blossom sat on his back, a startled look on her face.
"I did it," she said. "I really did it. I hit my target."
"Hit it hard, it looks like," Clark said.
"He smashed his head on the way down," Blossom said. "That part was pure luck."
Clark rattled his shackles. "The key," he said. "Find it. We’ve only got--" He checked the digital clock. Shit. "Nine minutes, seventeen seconds."
Blossom sifted frantically through Lex’s pockets. "Got it." She lunged to Clark’s side. Going up on her toes, she slid the key home--first one wrist, then the other.
Clark stumbled forward. "Thanks."
"There’s only eight minutes left," Blossom said nervously. "Is it enough?"
"It’ll have to be," Clark said. Bracing his hands on Lex’s control panel, he closed his eyes and sank his mind into the neutron bomb’s computer trigger.
"Crap," Clark said. "Lex’s account isn’t logged on. The system’s asking for a password." He dove for his laptop.
"Can you hack it?" Blossom asked, watching him power up his code-cracking program.
He linked it to Lex’s computer, using his mind as a network bridge. "Of course," Clark said. "Given enough time. But can I do it in--" he looked at the clock, "--six and a half minutes? I don’t know."
He urged the program to run faster. "Lex’s password is ten alphanumeric digits," he said.
"That’s 8.4 x 1017 possible combinations," Blossom said. "That could take hours."
She was right, but there wasn’t much Clark could do about it. Except pray. He watched the list of possible passwords flash through the login screen. So far, nothing.
"Three minutes," Blossom said. "Maybe you should try a few manual combinations."
"Like what?" Clark asked, exasperated.
She bit her lip. "I don’t know. He’s your nemesis, isn’t he? You should have an idea what he might pick."
"Birthday? Hometown? Mother’s maiden name?" Clark tried them all. No luck.
"1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-0?" Blossom suggested.
Nope.
Clark glanced at the clock. Seventeen seconds. Come on. What would Lex have picked?
An idea hit him. Mentally, he typed it in.
Hot damn!
"We’re in," he shouted.
"What did you put in?" Blossom asked.
"C-l-a-r-k-s-u-c-k-s."
His mind raced through Lex’s system, picking up information. The bomb itself was hidden in one of the lair’s upper passageways. Ironically, not far from Blossom and Clark’s first teleport location. It was controlled by wireless pulse.
"Eight seconds," Blossom breathed.
Clark’s brain rocketed through the directories on Lex’s hard drive, searching for the bomb execution program.
"Six," Blossom said.
He found the document.
Originality had never been Lex’s strong point, Clark mused. Luckily for humanity.
"Five seconds," Blossom squeaked. "Four, three..."
Clark dove into the system manager and executed a delete command. "Got it," he said, slumping into Lex’s leather upholstered command chair.
Blossom squinted at the readout on the control panel screen. "Are you sure?"
Clark looked up at the plasma image of Megalopolis at midnight. A couple strolled by, hand in hand, laughing, blissfully unaware of their narrow escape.
"Yep," Clark told her.
Blossom blinked. "Then we really did it? We saved the day?"
Clark exhaled a shaky laugh. "With two-point-four seconds to spare."
"Wow," Blossom said. "Who would have thought it?"
Chapter Nine
Friday, 10:35 p.m.
You’d think she’d be ecstatic.
Blossom leaned against the bar in the HI lounge, worrying the swizzle stick in her Long Island iced tea as she watched the free flow of testosterone all around her. The room belched muscle. Corded pecs, bulging biceps, buns of steel--you name it, it was here.
And a good portion of it was trying to impress her.
"So then I swung through the window," Peter Parkington was saying. "And knocked the kidnapper on his butt."
Pete was kind of cute, Blossom thought, but he seemed a bit immature.
"That’s nothing," Dr. Banning said with a scowl. "Just last week I knocked a hole in a concrete wall with my bare fist and discovered a secret weapons cache."
A handsome man, Blossom reflected, but the green tinge to his skin was a bit disconcerting.
"Hey, babe. How’s it going?"
She looked up, startled to find Bruce Wynn gazing down at her. Diana Price clung to his perfect tricep.
"I didn’t know you two were still..." She drew
a breath. "I mean after the Burger Shack..." She tried again. "I thought after Bruce ended up on the floor..."
Ah, hell. She took a gulp of her drink.
Diana laughed. "We’re fine," she said. She leaned in close and lowered her voice. "Bruce likes things rough once in a while. You should try it with Clark."
"Clark?" Blossom squeaked. She couldn’t imagine it.
Bruce’s moody gaze scanned the room. "Yeah. Where is Geek Man, anyway?"
"Not here," Blossom said in a small voice. And she didn’t know where he was, either. It had been six days since she’d last seen him, during the mission debriefing with Captain Marvelous. She had a sneaky feeling he was avoiding her.
Diana confirmed it. "It’s not like Clark to miss his own victory party. Or a free buffet," she added thoughtfully.
"He’s a geek," Bruce said. "He probably got wrapped up in a Star Trek marathon or something."
They laughed and moved off.
Blossom set her drink on the bar, feeling suddenly sick. It was true, then. She’d been just an assignment to Clark, and now that the world was safe, he didn’t want anything to do with her. Probably, he was out on the town, one tall, anorexic supermodel draped over each arm. Probably, he’d spend the night with them. Probably, he wouldn’t give Blossom a thought while he was doing it. Probably...
Probably he couldn’t care less that she was in love with him.
The bar phone rang. The bartender snagged it. "Yo... Yeah, sure thing, Clark. It’ll be down in fifteen."
Blossom’s eyes widened. "Excuse me," she said. "But was that Clark Kendall on the line?"
"Yep," the muscle-bound bartender said. "He’s in the computer lab. He wants me to send him a sandwich."
* * * *
Saturday, 10:59 p.m.
Clark clicked aimlessly on the Internet browser window, not even caring what popped up. It hardly mattered. He couldn’t think of anything but Blossom, anyway.
He’d known it couldn’t last, of course. But somehow, rather than being a comfort, the knowledge only made his heart ache. Blossom was everything he ever wanted in a woman--she was cute, smart, and brave. She didn’t give up when things got tough. And she was sexy as hell. He closed his eyes, reliving the moment she’d reached her first orgasm. In his arms. Her inner muscles had tightened so hard on him that he’d seen stars. That’s when he’d realized he loved her. And when she’d saved him from taking Lex’s bullet, the emotion intensified exponentially.
Then they’d returned to HI headquarters, where Blossom had been swamped by every superhero on the payroll. They all wanted to meet her. He’d stayed close, and heard five invitations to dinner in the space of seven minutes. Laughing, she’d accepted them all.
In that moment, Clark knew he wouldn’t be able to compete. Blossom couldn’t help her visual orientation--it was part of her superpower. And Clark just didn’t look like a superhero. He never would. He wasn’t even going to try.
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and clicked over to digital TV streaming. There was an all-night Star Trek marathon starting at eleven. At least it would get his mind off his troubles.
A knock sounded at the door. His sandwich from the bar, most likely. "Come on in," he called. "Door’s unlocked."
Footsteps, then a soft hand on his shoulder.
He swallowed hard and swiveled his chair around. "Blossom. What are you doing down here?"
"I brought you this." She placed a Styrofoam take-out container and a large soda on his desk. "So. This is where you’ve been hiding all week."
"I spend most of my time here," he told her. "I’m a geek, remember?"
She gave a soft laugh at that. "Yeah. I remember." Then, more softly, "How could I forget?"
Clark popped the lid of his sandwich container. "You should go back to the party. Everyone will miss you."
"It’s your party, too," Blossom said. "Come with me."
"No," said Clark abruptly. "I’ve got work to do."
Blossom sidled in closer. "Work? That looks like Star Trek."
He hit the minimize button. "So what?"
"So turn it off. Come to the party."
He couldn’t stand being the object of her pity. "I know what you’re doing," he said. "And I appreciate it, but you really don’t have to. The assignment’s over. Let’s just try to forget it." He took a bite of his turkey club.
She inhaled a sharp intake of breath. "So that’s all I am to you, then. A completed assignment. Someone you fucked--"
Clark nearly choked.
"--in the name of duty."
"Is that what you think?" He grabbed his soda and took a gulp.
"It’s true, isn’t it?"
He coughed. "God, no."
"Then why are you avoiding me?"
He looked up at her, slightly dizzy from lack of air. "I’m not avoiding you." Well, okay, maybe he was, but he didn’t like admitting it. "I’m giving you a chance to get what you want. A real superhero. Like the ones hanging all over your apartment walls."
"But I don’t want a man like that anymore," she said softly.
"You don’t?"
"No. I don’t. You’re my hero now."
Clark gaped at her.
She looked away, her cheeks turning pink. "I didn’t mean to say that," she said. "Look. Just forget I mentioned it." She inched toward the door. "I’m going back to the party now."
He leaped out of his seat and grabbed her arm. "I can’t forget it," he told her. "I need to know. Is it true?"
She hesitated.
"Blossom..."
"Yes," she said irritably. "Okay? Are you satisfied? Yes. I love you. Now let me go."
She loved him?
"No," said Clark. "Not until you say that again."
"Let me go."
"No." He grinned. "Not that part. The other thing. About how you love me."
"Clark..."
"Because I love you, too, you know."
She blinked up at him. "You do?"
"Yeah," he said softly, gathering her into his arms. She fit just right. A reckless, joyful feeling crept over him. "Marry me, Blossom."
"What?!" She tried to twist out of his arms, but he didn’t let her. "Are you nuts? You’re kidding, right? You can’t possibly want to get married. Marriage means car payments, kids, a mortgage, life insurance..."
"And sex," Clark said. "Don’t forget the sex. Lots of it. Night and day. In every room in the house. Even the closets. In every position you can think of."
She blushed. "Oh. Well. When you put it like that, I don’t know what to say."
"Say yes."
Blossom looked into his eyes and laughed. "All right. Yes."
"Great," Clark said, taking off his glasses. He set them on the desk next to his laptop and reached for her.
"Hey," she said. "What are you doing?"
"This," he said, and kissed her.
The End
SILK
By
Michelle M. Pillow
© copyright August 2004, Michelle M. Pillow
Prologue
His touch burned into her skin like liquid fire, as he clutched her arms in what must have been desperation and panic. It was more memory than any grown woman should have of her father. Everything she had been was lost in that moment of betrayal--a violation worse than death because it could never end, could never be escaped.
The father gave her life, but the scientist took it back. She had been sixteen, in the prime of her youth. He killed her that day. Her father--genius, patriot, madman, scientist--had been given no choice and in turn didn’t give her one. He was dying. It was her or the enemy. And so he chose the impossible. He chose the death of his child in exchange for the birth of a new elite superhero.
That is why Silk could never hate her killer.
Chapter One
Quinlan St. James gasped as coffee spilled over her dark designer pantsuit. Blinking, she glared after the hoverboarders who trailed by, laughing rudely at her. Their board
s glided noiselessly over the uneven sidewalks of Pierson Park, carrying the spike-haired lads to their next victim.
She clutched her newspaper under her arm as she leaned over to pick up the cup and throw it in the trash. She didn’t mind the kids, not really. They were just being young and obnoxious. She should have been watching for them, but her mind was clouded with other things. Brushing the brown droplets off her suit with the back of her hand, she sighed. The suit was stained, but it wasn’t like she needed to be anywhere that it would matter.
Quinlan turned around and headed straight back to the quaint little sidewalk coffee vendor. The man behind the counter wiped his hands on his twenty-first century green apron and automatically handed her another cup. As she made a move to reach for her card, but he smiled and waved her away. Quinlan nodded at him and walked back over to her customary bench beneath the shade of a tall oak tree.
She took a small sip before setting the cup down. Coffee was better in the old district. They still ground it by hand and brewed it in refurbished coffee machines. Flipping to the science section of the New Pierson City Times, her face fell as she saw her father’s cheery expression staring at her. Quietly, she scanned the feature article on him.
Ten years after his unexplained death, Dr. William St. James, renowned genetic engineer, will be inducted into the Scientific Achievement Hall of Fame this weekend. Dr. St. James spent the last two decades of his life fighting the war against genetic diseases ... work that is the foundation of modern genetic study....
Quinlan narrowed her gray-green eyes, refusing to cry about things she could not change. She looked silently up at the bright blue sky. Clouds peeked down from behind the tree limbs and the dark skyscrapers of the oldest section of the city. Nearby, the motor of a 1950 Chevy Fastback revved as it gave tourist rides around the historical section of the park.
Quinlan frowned. The newspaper wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know. Sighing, she turned back to the article anyway.
