Seven Wonders

by Christopher, Adam

  She took the key card from her belt, but he reached out and held her wrist just as she moved to unlock the door. She turned towards him, the beak of her mask almost touching his nose. He shook his head.

  "I've changed my mind about that. There's nothing to suggest you were here. All this," he gestured to the bodies under his feet, "was me."

  Blackbird pulled back her hand, and the Cowl reached for the door handle. He grabbed the chrome lever and pulled downwards, pushing the door open as though it were unlocked. With no effort at all, the wood around the handle and lock exploded in splinters, the door swinging open with the locking bolt still attached to the doorframe, the mechanism orphaned from the body of the door itself. He stepped past Blackbird and into the laboratory. Blackbird watched his back for a moment, unsure whether his demonstration was the last remnant of his superpowers or just due to his natural strength.

  The laboratory was as ordinary as the door. White cupboards with glass doors lined most of the walls, interrupted at intervals by a couple of emergency water showers, two large industrial sinks and two fume hoods. It was obviously a chemical lab rather than an electronic one, which made the clutter that covered the bench running down the center of the long, rectangular room all the more obvious. The tools of an electronics engineer were everywhere − soldering irons, volt meters, bulky oscilloscopes, and miles and miles of cable. Plastic crates ranging from beer cooler size down to matchboxes were spread over the available floor space and much of the bench tops, filled with neatly sorted and filed componentry and construction material. Someone had clearly moved in quickly, requisitioning a spare laboratory for a purpose other than what it had been designed for.

  All of this was unimportant. The Cowl kicked tubs of resistors and transistors out of his way as he approached the center bench. With both arms he swept the detritus from the work surface clear so he could get a good look at the device G-clamped into position.

  It was long and narrow, a cylinder that widened to a cone at one end. It looked like a slightly larger-than-life model of an anti-tank rocket, although instead of camouflage green the object was shiny piano black. It had to be, as the reflective quality of the surface was essential to its function.

  Blackbird spread her hands. "One black light converter. Help yourself."

  The Cowl reached out to touch it, paused, then brought his hand back. Without turning to Blackbird, standing behind him, he asked: "The whole thing? It's bigger than I expected."

  Blackbird nodded, moving forward so they stood next to each other at the bench. "Yes. The design was modified as it was built. Most of the cylinder is a modified housing for the conductor rods."

  "Presumably the converter coil itself is in here?" The Cowl patted the top of the wide cone section, much like a car enthusiast admiring an old classic.

  Blackbird flicked a panel open on the side of the cone. The access was only big enough for a single hand to pass through, but the end of the conductor rod array, converging in a glassy, squat trapezoid like the tube from an ancient TV, was clearly visible. Sitting on the flat endsurface of the tube was a black metal box, studded with input ports and held in place by aluminum struts.

  "The convertor coil?"

  Blackbird nodded. "Coil and prism, yes."

  "That's what we need." The Cowl reached into the panel, felt around for a moment, then yanked. The entire bench rocked in protest, and the G-clamps loosened, but after a second pull the black box came cleanly from its cradle. He held the box up in front of Blackbird.

  "Pay day."

  "Is that really all you need?"

  The Cowl looked at the main body of the converter machine. "That's it, sweetie." He frowned. "Looks like you'll have to put in some late nights to get it fixed. Some more late nights, I mean."

  Blackbird's mask clicked sharply, the sound of a quick intake of breath for a laugh, but amplified and spookified through the bird mask's synthesizer.

  "I don't think I'm coming back here again."

  It was the Cowl's turn to laugh. He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. "You got that right. Shall we?"

  His companion nodded, and the Cowl turned on his heel and strode confidently out of the laboratory. Blackbird lingered a moment, surveying the wrecked machine and the components scattered on the floor, some cracked and split from the Cowl's blood-spattered boots. She remembered the damage she'd seen in the lab her parents shared, the morning after they'd vanished. The police had let her in under the yellow tape across the door, and had warned her about the blood, although she hadn't listened.

  Blackbird stopped and tried to remember the last thing her parents had said to her, but she couldn't, and she wondered whether this should have bothered her or not. After a few seconds she discarded the thought and gritted her teeth.

  Focus, focus.

  Before she left, Blackbird ducked around the central bench to a smaller worktop, mostly hidden from view thanks to a large movable magnifying screen that hung on a dolly arm over it. Nudging the screen aside, she glanced over the small device currently under construction, a cat's cradle of fine wire and circuitry. Beside it, one of the component bins, this one the size of a shoebox. She rifled through the contents for a couple of seconds until she found what she was looking for, a blue circuit board with a large cuboidal CPU embedded at the center.

  "Forgotten something?" The Cowl stood in the doorway. Blackbird stopped mid-stride, then straightened up and calmed herself. There was nothing to be afraid of.

  "Spare processor. Anything happens to the converter coil, I can fix it, but the processor burns out we're back to square one." She held up the circuit boldly. It looked innocuous enough, but it was no part of the black light convertor. She just hoped he didn't realize. Blackbird was grateful her mask covered her entire face, so the Cowl couldn't see her trembling lip or the cold sweat running down her face.

  After a thousand years the Cowl smiled, his cheeks creasing and pushing his half-mask up slightly. "Good thinking, Batman."

  Blackbird smiled beneath the mask. Her synthesized voice snapped on. It hid her fear well.

  "Lead the way, Boy Wonder."

  She watched him when he returned. He walked across the bridge towards the computer, the Lair apparently empty. The swivel chair was askew at the desk, and two screens were on. She watched him from a doorway swathed in shadows, her catsuit blending her into the dark completely.

  The Cowl glanced across the control desk like he always did, eyes taking in key readings and indicators out of habit. But she had left nothing amiss.

  He jerked his head back, throwing the infamous hood back, and with one hand he swiftly unhooked his mask and skull cap from the back and shucked it off, dumping the sweaty piece to the control desk. With the other hand he tabbed one of the active computer displays through open applications and folders. From the doorway, Blackbird could see the music directory flip into view, the only folder she had left open.

  She stepped from the dark.

  "Good hunting?"

  The Cowl flicked a switch on the desk with a theatrical flourish, like she wouldn't notice his surprise at her approach. Nobody could get past the Cowl, but, of course, that was a key design point of her costume: complete stealth. Nobody could get past the Cowl but her.

  He flicked another switch, adding to the illusion, then turned to reply. Blackbird stepped into a sharp triangle of light cast from halogen hidden high above. She almost made to rub her face, to get rid of the puffiness she could feel from an hour of tears, but stopped herself, realizing her face was still in shadow. He couldn't see the redness of her skin or the state of her hair.

  He flipped a glossy black oblong from a compartment on his belt. He held it up, and rubbed a thumb across the surface. Responding to the gesture, the device's small screen flicked into life, displaying a set of diagrams. Blackbird couldn't see what they were, exactly, but she guessed they were part of the machine her partner was gathering the parts for.

  "Oh yes, my dear, good hunting indeed. No resi
stance, easy job. I can start feeding the design algorithms into the computer in the morning, and we can work on the next part."

  Blackbird padded over to the Cowl. As soon as she was near enough, he swung his arms around her neck and drew her in. She resisted, just for a second, then relaxed and returned the gesture. They hugged.

  "Boring night for you, huh?" His breath was hot on her neck, and he was damp with sweat. Whatever he'd been doing, he'd had a good workout, even with his powers. "I'm sorry, I've been neglecting you. Us. We're a team, we're partners. I should have taken you tonight, I'm sorry. But I need you for the next one for sure. You OK?"

  Blackbird hesitated again. Over his shoulder, her face was impassive, emotionless, her eyes dry and sore, her mind emotionally spent. But he couldn't know. Not yet. There was planning to do.

  "Yeah, of course. I've just had myself for company the past six hours." Her fingers found the edge of his suit around his neck, and then the silver chain. She tugged it out from under his costume and squeezed the crucifix in her hand. "So, tell me about the job."

  The Cowl had killed her parents after they refused to cooperate. Blackbird allowed herself a little smile.

  Revenge would be sweet.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  To run like the wind, went the proverb. A phrase never used because, well, it was the worst cliché around.

  Tony laughed at the thought but found himself gasping almost instantly as the breath was snatched from his lungs. His heart raced, not from exertion, but from the sheer thrill of it. It really wasn't hard − if you could run this fast, then your brain was also capable of navigating around the obstacles registered even fleetingly by your optic nerves. People, animals, trees, park benches, skyscrapers. The rocks on the hillside south of the city. He hadn't meant to cut straight down from his dad's lodge, but he couldn't help himself. It had been the most direct route back to the city, and he was still buzzing a little after reducing a pile of dry logs stacked against the house to neatly split firewood. He knew his dad wasn't going to go anywhere near the lodge until the winter, and by that time he wouldn't remember whether he'd cut the logs himself or not.

  Tony slowed enough to suck in a proper, full breath, his chest tight. That was interesting. Was it an insurmountable problem? Back when the railroad first opened America to high-speed travel, people thought you wouldn't be able to breathe at thirty miles per hour, and be dead at sixty. Perhaps they had the right idea, born out of fear and superstition rather than science, but they were off by a factor of ten. Tony could only guess his speed, of course. Maybe Jeannie had some gadget he could carry, some kind of pedometer or speedometer that would give him an actual reading. As part of her training regimen, as she had called it, it would make sense to actually collect some kind of data.

  He slowed, then stopped. The wide sidewalk stretched ahead of him, curving along the back of East Bay and the famous golden sands. He jogged a little, momentarily just one of many, carefully checking around him as discreetly as possible before coming to a stop at a bench. Nothing. Nobody had seen him virtually pop into existence out of thin air. He sat and watched bathers on the beach, and joggers on the walkway. Everything was OK. Situation normal.

  He felt… well, he felt fine, although his feet were hot. He crossed one foot over his knee to examine his old shoes. The rubber, amazingly, hadn't melted, but the soles were worn. That was probably going to be the limiting factor. Footwear. He'd have to mention that to Jeannie, get her to program it into her design.

  Tony leaned back, enjoying the morning sun, and laughed then tempered his humor, glancing self-consciously to the left and right. For years, he'd felt apart, distanced from his home town. The Cowl held court, the Seven Wonders were never there, the city government was corrupt, the police force impotent.

  And then he'd woken up as the most powerful man in the city. Well… one of the most powerful, although he didn't really know what powers each of the Seven Wonders had. How this had happened to him, he had no fucking clue. It didn't matter. What did matter was that in the last week he felt part of San Ventura in a way he never had. No fear, no regrets. No limits.

  No motherfucking goddamn limits.

  Feet restless and quadriceps pinging pleasantly, Tony stood. No limits? He looked across the beach, separated from the walkway by a concrete retaining wall and some elegantly arranged palm trees. The beach itself was deep yellow sand for maybe fifty feet, turning to harder wet sand for the next fifty before the breakers licked land. On his right, the great North Beach suspension bridge, based on the grand design of the Golden Gate of San Francisco far to the north. The sun glinted off the swanky North Beach suburbs that studded the hills across the bay, maybe a forty-minute drive away by car if you stuck to the coastline.

  But directly across the harbor it wasn't so far. A couple of miles? Maybe a bit more. And the harbor wasn't exactly deep. San Ventura was a pretty spot and a popular tourist destination, but the channel wasn't capable of letting cruise ships of any size into the port. And Tony could swim, and there was coastguard, and plenty of people around.

  Could he do it? Could he run fast enough across the water? Skip over it like a stone, and reach the other side? If he got across and then back he could meet up with Jeannie at the coffee shop like they'd agreed, only he'd have to step on the gas even more so he wouldn't be late. Even better, an incentive. And Tony hated being late, hated it. And he had time to spare. He needed to go to the bank, but he could run that errand tomorrow. Thanks to a change of shifts at Big Deal he had Thursday off too.

  Tony hopped the wall and landed ankle-deep in the sand of East Bay. Shaking his shoes, he trotted towards the sea.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The precinct house was air-conditioned as all modern buildings in San Ventura were. This was southern California. It was hot in June. Everyone knew this. But the SVPD were funded by the good taxpayers of the county… which meant the air-conditioning units, each individually working at maximum capacity, were inherently unable to cool the air inside the police offices due to their cheapness. Detective Sam Millar lamented this fact every day in summer, and was grateful that she at least had a window, and one that even opened. True enough, it did seem that all opening it did was funnel hotter air from outside in, but Sam figured that the psychological benefits of seeing the gently swayed blinds behind her desk outweighed the purely practical − if non-existent − effects.

  Joe was slumped at the desk facing hers. The two of them had shared the same corner of the open-plan floor for a handful of years now. She got the warm breeze, he got the view.

  Her partner was sagging a little too much in his chair, which he'd pumped low so he could put his feet up more comfortably on his desk. He was gingerly sipping a hot coffee while Sam sucked down an icecold mint frappé. She didn't quite believe his explanation of how a piping-hot drink actually cooled you down in summer, and had politely declined his offer of a jumbo grande Americano from the Apollo Coffee across the street, opting instead for something cooler. Joe certainly looked like he was suffering as he attempted to down the drink. Sam, on the other hand, was feeling remarkably refreshed.

  "I wonder why the FBI were interested in that shooting?" Joe lifted the lid on his drink, apparently admitting defeat as he gently blew across the surface of his coffee.

  Sam kept the straw of her milkshake in her mouth. "What shooting?" She took another delightfully chilled mouthful.

  "That black guy. The one we went to see this morning with Jackie."

  "Oh yeah." Sam thought as she pulled on the straw. How did she forget what she was doing that morning? The more she thought, the more her mind clouded over. She took another suck of milkshake. Boy, it was hot today. The heat made her fuzzy and tired. "What did the FBI report say?"

  Joe shrugged, and re-crossed his legs. "No clue. Jackie saw it and signed it."

  "Oh, OK then." Dammit, why was she so lethargic? This drink was supposed to wake her up. Perhaps Joe was right about the coffee.

  "Sti
ll." Joe stretched, swinging his legs off the desk and reaching to an evidence box with one hand, fingers dancing on the hot cardboard held in his other. "We did get this. I wonder if we should send it on to the bureau?"

  "What's that?" Sam sat up in her chair, the spring suddenly tilting her forward as she moved, making her realize she was slouched as lazily as her partner.

  Joe tossed the sealed plastic bag onto Sam's desk. She sat her halfdone drink on one of the few empty spaces on her crowded desk and picked it up. Inside was an elliptical strip of something black and plasticky. She moved it around through the bag between her thumb and forefinger. It was some kind of fabric that shone in the light coming in from the window behind her.