by Matt Solomon
“No,” the Stick said. He was intent on determining the severity of the storm, and the amount of time the weather might delay his arrival in Chicago. Special transport waited there to take him to Richland Center. Any delay was unacceptable.
The attendant pursed her lips. No one had ever told her “no” before when asked to buckle in.
Speakers crackled as the pilot spoke from the cabin in a monotone drawl. “Well, we’re in the middle of some weather,” he said, stating the obvious. “Doppler’s got this front stretching from eastern Minnesota all the way down to Little Rock. Air traffic control isn’t going to let us get anywhere near Chicago for now. Looks like we’ll be circling St. Louis until she blows through. Just make yourself comfortable. Lori will help you out with anything you need.”
The Stick set down the coffee and picked up the black cane that had been resting next to his chair. He turned to the cabin attendant. “Hi, Lori. I need something.”
“Sir, I have to ask you again to sit down. It isn’t safe.”
“No,” repeated the Stick. “I need to talk to the captain.”
“I’m afraid you can’t. Cabin doors are locked. FAA regulations, as I’m sure you know. The only way to reach him is on this intercom.” She pointed to a simple handset hooked on the cabin wall next to her seat. “But he’s got his hands full at the moment. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
The Stick strode down the center of the plane, heading straight for the intercom.
“Sir!” Lori protested as the Stick reached over her and grabbed the handset.
“Captain,” the Stick said. “Circling St. Louis is unacceptable. I need to get to Chicago. I have an important connection to make there.”
There was a long silence. Lori frowned at the Stick, who somehow stood stone still despite the plane’s violent jitter.
The cabin speaker crackled again. “Unacceptable or not, air traffic control isn’t letting us any farther north until this weather breaks. It’s spawning tornados all over the place. We do apologize for the inconvenience, but it’s out of our hands.”
The Stick exhaled. “Fine,” he said. “Have it your way.” He hung up the handset, then returned to his seat. He set down his cane, peeled off his jacket, and unbuttoned his white shirt.
Embarrassed, Lori turned her head. “Please keep your clothes on, sir.”
“Relax.” The Stick removed his white button-down to reveal a skin-tight black shirt as sleek as the physique it covered. He took off his pants. Black leggings, made from the same material as the shirt, graced his lower half. He folded his suit coat and pants, depositing them in an overhead bin. Then from the same compartment, he extracted a large black duffle.
He opened the bag, revealing a dozen black sticks, each weapon outfitted with a different high-tech attachment. Many people thought the sticks were the source of his nickname, but they were wrong. President Roosevelt once said “Speak softly and carry a big stick”—the idea that diplomacy was well and good, but only when backed by the threat of massive force. The Stick was that force.
He moved the weapons aside one by one until he found what he was looking for: a compact red-and-white bundle that unwrapped into another body suit. He donned the top.
The flight attendant blinked as she noted the webbing between the arms and torso. After he pulled on the pants, his legs were similarly joined. It made the Stick look like a flying squirrel. He repositioned the duffle’s contents and slung the bag across his body. He picked up his cane.
“Sir, I have to ask,” said Lori. “What in the world are you wearing?”
“A wingsuit.”
“A wing … What is it for?”
“Leaving.”
“I’m sorry?”
The Stick withdrew his phone and made a call.
“Sir, you cannot turn on portable electronic devices at this…” A hard look from the Stick halted Lori’s warning.
“Flight scrapped, we’re stuck up here. I’ll be on the ground in twenty minutes,” he said to someone on the other end. “Ping me for the exact location and arrange transport ASAP. There should be something in the area. I’ll go off board if necessary. Calculating my departure trajectory now.” He ended the call and tapped the screen twice. An app opened and located the plane’s current position. The Stick chose a spot on the map and an arc appeared on the screen, tracing a three-dimensional path out of the plane to a landing location. An on-screen clock began counting back from thirty seconds.
Last, he removed a stainless-steel syringe from his bag and tore off the needle cap with his teeth. He plunged the hypodermic straight through the wingsuit and into his thigh, dropping the plunger in a single smooth motion. In moments, his chest and shoulders heaved violently, and his pupils swelled. He yanked out the syringe, dropped it and let it roll down the aisle.
He approached Lori, who had little color left in her face. “Go join the pilots in the cabin.”
“Please, sir. You can’t jump out of this plane. It’s … it’s not that kind of plane! And the storm…” Making her point, an earsplitting clap of thunder shook the aircraft. Lori clutched the armrests of her seat.
He checked the countdown. “I’m leaving in twenty seconds. Once I open that door, the cabin pressure is going to get really uncomfortable. You’ll feel much better up front.”
“There’s only t-t-two chairs in there,” Lori protested.
“Then I guess you’ll have to stand.”
“I … I … I…”
People who were paralyzed with fear often made it easier for the Stick to do his job. This was not one of those times. Lori flinched as he grabbed the handset next to her head.
“Captain, I’m jumping out of your plane. Do the right thing and let Lori up front with you.”
He handed the handset back to Lori and donned a pair of goggles. “I’m going in ten,” he told her. “Tell him.”
“He’s opening the door in ten seconds!” Lori screamed into the handset. “He’s not kidding! He’s dressed like a superhero or something! He’s crazy!”
“I’ve locked the emergency door. You’ve violated federal law!” said the pilot.
The Stick waved off the accusation with a swipe of his cane. “International law, too—a bunch of times. That door opens in seven seconds. Tell him.”
Lori unstrapped herself from her chair and pounded on the door to the cockpit.
“Five seconds,” cautioned the Stick.
The cockpit door swung open and Lori darted inside, locking it tight behind her.
The Stick turned to the emergency exit door. Blue electricity crackled out of the business end of his weapon. He aimed it at the hatch lock and fired a cobalt blast. The interior lights dimmed, and the plane dropped in altitude before righting itself. One good kick from the Stick, and the door flung open. He dove out of the plane in a rush of air, his wingsuit gliding through gale-force winds toward the ground.
He wouldn’t miss his chance at a giant in Richland Center.
19
Clear liquid filled the hypodermic as Barton drew back the plunger. His hand trembled from exhaustion or exhilaration—he couldn’t tell the difference. Tandem mass spectrometry confirmed what earlier simulations had predicted: The rat’s physiology was too accelerated to accept the giant growth hormone. The rodent’s internal organs didn’t have a prayer of keeping pace.
But now, after several hours of analyzing the dead giant-rat, Barton knew he and Dr. Fitzgibbons were closer to identifying the allelic variant necessary to epigenetically modify, clone, and express the DNA structure to stabilize the GGH. At least, that was what Barton would write in his report to Gourmand. In layman’s terms, he was pretty sure he could grow a rat without blowing it up. There were, of course, mountains of tests ahead to confirm his hypothesis.
The door to the lab clicked open, and Fitzgibbons scrambled into the laboratory.
Barton set the hypodermic down, eager to deliver his news. But before he could speak, his mentor shouted about some
thing else entirely.
“We’ve made contact!” Fitzgibbons’s eyes were wild as the door lock sounded. He pulled up the latest satellite images on the bank of monitors. “The giant is on the move. We have to find him before the Stick arrives!”
Barton couldn’t quite believe his ears. “We should have gone down to the warehouse with the tracking gun while we had the chance!”
Fitzgibbons ignored the complaint and panned through satellite imagery of the Starlite 14. “It’s running around on the edge of town. The thing picked Jamie off the ground and hung him out to dry on a movie marquee.”
“But … but why would it…?” Barton sputtered, trying to process the strange story.
“It doesn’t matter right now. Jamie’s detailing the whole encounter for us. How long will it take to access every bird at our disposal?”
“It’s the middle of the night on the coast. I’m not sure there’s anyone there at this hour.”
“We’ll have to do it without their consent.” He pounded the keyboard. “We need to know the giant’s location when the Stick arrives. If we’re close, he’ll get it.” Barton hurried to his workstation and joined the effort. Soon they had retrained every satellite at their disposal and a few more that weren’t. It would be a few minutes before they came online and scoured the entire area.
The timing was awkward, but the junior scientist still wanted to share his own news. He retrieved the syringe, holding it up so that its contents glowed with promise in the amber light. “Sean, I have a new version.”
“You can’t be ready to test again this soon…”
“Oh, but I am,” said Barton with a wide smile. He handed Fitzgibbons the hypodermic. “Gourmand will double our funding.”
Fitzgibbons held the sample up to the light. “This is going to make us giants among men.”
The words were barely out of Fitzgibbons’s mouth when something rammed him hard in the back, sending the syringe flying into the air. He fell to his hands and knees.
Barton raced Jamie Fitzgibbons for the syringe, sliding across the smooth tile floor, but the pudgy scientist didn’t stand a chance. Jamie dove like an All-Pro linebacker pouncing on a fumble. He held the GGH high up above his head, thumb on the plunger.
“Jamie,” Fitzgibbons whispered, extending a cautious hand. “What are you doing? Put that down, now.”
“You just don’t want me to have it!” the angry teenager yelled back, his face red with betrayal. “You made him a giant instead of me.”
“Hold on now. We didn’t make anything,” Fitzgibbons explained as calmly as he could, inching closer to his son. “But that’s our goal. And we need the giant you saw to make it happen. I’ll explain everything after you put down the syringe. Please. You don’t want…”
Jamie slammed the needle down into his thigh. “I want to be huge!”
20
The GGH injection immediately sent Jamie into shock, and he thumped his head when he hit the floor. Fitzgibbons and Barton dragged the unconscious teen into the large greenhouse section of the lab, where they did everything in their power to stabilize his vitals. Then Jamie’s T-shirt ripped—first the neck, then the shoulders, until the whole thing was rags. When his shoes burst, the laces snapped like overtightened guitar strings. His blue jeans soon were in tatters on the floor.
For modesty’s sake, Barton draped Jamie in an absurdly large hospital gown stitched with an Accelerton logo, a garment the scientists had custom-ordered in case they ever secured a live giant.
In twenty minutes’ time, Giant Jamie stretched across nearly twenty feet of laboratory. His vein-webbed eyelids twitched, but they didn’t open. Fitzgibbons held his palm against the colossal jugular vein in his son’s neck and counted out the irregular heartbeats. He thanked the stars for small miracles—Barton’s first version of GGH might have caused Jamie’s heart to burst out of his chest.
Barton kept his distance, partly out of respect and partly to stay within arm’s reach of the tranquilizer gun and security system on the wall. He monitored Jamie’s shaky but improving vital systems on a tablet computer. “He’s hanging in there,” he said, excited that his formula was working but sensitive enough not to show his glee to the boy’s father. “There’s still a long ways to go, but organ growth has been largely uniform. Vitals are sluggish but continue to function, even as he expands. That’s very positive, Sean. When Gourmand sees these results…”
“Gourmand is never going to find out about this,” said Fitzgibbons, angrily approaching his assistant, “because we’re not going to breathe a word about it.”
Barton adjusted his glasses and fiddled with the tablet. Then he straightened his shoulders and looked Fitzgibbons in the eye. “Respectfully, I can’t promise to keep this between us. It isn’t personal…”
“Personal is exactly what it is,” shouted Fitzgibbons, yanking the tablet from Barton’s hands and hurling it to the cement. The screen splintered into a spider’s web. “Look at him, Neil. That’s my son! And I won’t let Accelerton turn him into a huge, walking experiment.”
“Accelerton didn’t do that to him. He did it to himself.” Barton retrieved his tablet, confirmed that it still functioned despite the cracked screen, and tucked it under his arm. “Look—I didn’t plan to test GGH this way. But it happened. And now that it has, no one can help him better than Accelerton.”
“That’s a lie, and you know it. If Gourmand finds out about Jamie, she’ll never let him see the light of day again—he’ll be a ‘prototype,’ for God’s sake. Legal will figure out some way to claim him as Accelerton property, mark my words. Is my son still even considered human under the law? You can imagine their arguments.”
Barton acknowledged the point. “I can keep things under wraps for a few days, maybe a week, give you an opportunity to come to grips with what’s happened,” he offered. “During that time, we can track Jamie’s progress, monitor his physiology, and take samples of his blood. But I’ll only agree to keep quiet if he stays here—and under restraint.”
A pitiful moan escaped Giant Jamie’s lips. His nostrils spasmed as his skull expanded grotesquely. Fitzgibbons’s hands looked tiny as he placed them on the side of his son’s enormous forehead.
Barton circled Giant Jamie’s hulking body and unwound cable from the winch system on the other side of the room. “This is as much for his protection as it is for ours.”
“Neil, come on. He’s a kid.”
“Not anymore,” said Barton, dispensing with politeness. “The fact of the matter is that we don’t know what he is now. Whatever performance cocktail you’d been giving him already juiced his temper. You told me about the fights yourself. With the GGH, there’s more than a chance that his aggression has grown along with his body. Remember the rat? Now multiply that effect by fifty.” Barton set the cracked tablet down and attempted to throw one of the airline cables over Giant Jamie’s expanding torso. It took him three tries to get it all the way across.
Just as Barton was about to secure the cable, the tablet came to life and chirped an urgent alert. He picked it up and took in the shuffling images on the screen. “You’re going to want to see this.” He held out the tablet for Fitzgibbons. The cracked screen displayed four satellite images of a giant—as he approached, climbed up, and dropped into the silo at the quarry. Time stamps at the bottom of each image revealed that the behemoth had returned within the last forty minutes.
The sight gave Fitzgibbons hope that he still might save his son. He turned to Barton. “Here’s how this is going to work. Send these coordinates immediately to the Stick. He’ll bring down the giant, and we’ll have everything we need to synthesize generations of GGH. Jamie can be moved somewhere safe while I evaluate what can be done to help him.”
“Jamie’s not going anywhere.” A defiant Barton picked up the restraining cable to snap it in place.
But he never got the chance.
Giant Jamie’s massive right arm whipped the cable aside. He sat up, groggy, the loos
e blue gown hanging around his midsection.
Barton ran as fast as he could for the tranquilizer gun.
“Jamie!” Fitzgibbons screamed to get his giant son’s attention. “Lie back down! You’re still growing! You’re in no condition to move around!”
Giant Jamie waved his hand back and forth in front of his face as his huge, bleary eyes adjusted. “I’ve never felt better,” he muttered, his newly baritone voice pouring down on the two men from above. “I’m freaking awesome.”
A tranquilizer dart whizzed over Giant Jamie’s left shoulder, sailing into the adjoining laboratory.
Without so much as a sideways glance, the giant teenager swung his huge left fist in the threat’s direction. The blow missed Barton by inches, turning drywall to dust as it rammed the wall next to the gas system control box.
Barton scrambled across the floor, took shaky aim with the gun, and fired once more. This time the dart found its target, sticking Giant Jamie in the neck and delivering a dose of tranquilizer sufficient to knock out an elephant.
But only an elephant.
Giant Jamie ripped out the dart. “Barrrton!” The slurred shout shook the glass overhead like a furious thunderclap.
The tranquilizer circulated in Giant Jamie’s system as he made a fist and eyed up Barton. The woozy giant missed his mark again and crushed a new section of wall.
Terrified, Barton dropped the tranquilizer gun and dashed for the exit at the front of the lab.
Giant Jamie Fitzgibbons’s huge lips puckered as—puh-too—he launched a one-gallon ball of spit in Barton’s direction. It nailed him in the back and knocked the man into the door.
“Haaaw, haaaw, haaaw…” Giant Jamie’s punch-drunk laughter was eerily distorted by the tranquilizer. He turned to see his father with a gas mask over his face, creeping for the control box. “What the heck are you wearing, Dad? You look stupid.” Barton, covered in saliva, used the distraction to slip out of the lab.
