Just Cause Universe 3: Day of the Destroyer

by Ian Thomas Healy

  The Soldier dropped down in altitude, cruising in over fields of wheat, corn, and soybeans. Sparse clumps of trees huddled together, hiding farmhouses and barns. The hiss of the pods’ air conditioning stopped as the Soldier shed speed. Exterior vents opened and Faith could smell the sweet scent of the fields tinged with the tang of fertilizer and silage.

  “How are your power levels after that flight, Steel?” asked Faith. “You’ve got to be running on fumes.”

  “My engines are cadmium-powered ion drives and do not ever run on fumes, but I am utilizing reserve power. I will require time to recharge from the local grid.”

  “Then you better set us down here,” said Faith. “We can get into town on our own power and you can plug into one of those transmission lines. We’ll keep our radios on open transmit so you can monitor us in case we need you.”

  “That is a sound plan.” The Soldier deployed braking flaps and touched down beside a road as lightly as a bird. He popped open the pods and the two women gladly tumbled out.

  “Holy smokes!” cried a voice. Faith looked and saw a middle-aged man in overalls and a straw hat astride a horse. “Martians!” He spat a glob of brown spittle. “Or Russkies, mebbe?”

  “No, sir. We’re the good guys.” Faith crossed her knees. “Can we please use your bathroom?”

  The farmer scratched his head under his hat. “Well,” he said slowly. “I s’ppose.”

  “You are a wonderful man,” said Sundancer with a radiant smile that glowed even in the afternoon sunlight. “Is it okay if we plug in our robot here?”

  “Well,” said the farmer again. “I s’ppose.”

  #

  His pocket full of half a dozen blade-wands, Harlan collected what he’d begun to refer to as his magnetic crossbow and slipped out of the Parts Room. Gonsalvo had his entire torso buried in the Datsun’s engine compartment as he tried to loosen a recalcitrant spark plug. Harlan didn’t disturb him and instead headed out to the vacant lot behind the shop. At various times over the years, the lot had been used as a dump, a vagrants’ campground, a garden, and a burial ground for dead pets. Gonsalvo didn’t own the land, but a lot of larger pieces which he didn’t have space for in the Parts Room sat out in the dry weeds, slowly rusting into oblivion.

  Harlan didn’t go into the back lot very often. Most of the parts there were ruined and useless to him compared to the treasure trove of the Parts Room. He wouldn’t touch the twisted, stunted vegetables that grew wild amid the weeds and oil slicks, and the corner with its little pet headstones freaked him out. The back lot bordered a pawnshop on one side and on the other a taquería, which Harlan had never felt brave enough to try. The high fence around most of the lot should give him ample privacy for his work.

  He scouted around the terrain until he found the best angle to hit the nearby overhead power lines. The magnetic crossbow had a small kick when it fired, so he sought a spot where he could brace himself. A rusting hulk from the front end of a De Soto proved to be a suitable location. He hunched down, laid the barrel across the hood, and took careful aim.

  Harlan’s first shot whistled high, arching up and out until he couldn’t see it sparkling in the mid-afternoon sun any longer. He wondered where it would come down and what it might do when it did, but not enough to care who it might hit. He reloaded the weapon and aimed once more, taking into account the blade-wands’ tendency to waver mid-flight. With the next press of the trigger, he was rewarded with a blue flash as the wand severed one of the overhead lines.

  Harlan crowed his success. He’d hit the first line with his second shot, which left him four tries to hit the second. Perhaps he’d have a couple left over to rework with vertical stabilizers. He ignored the spitting wire as it twisted among the dirt and weeds of the back lot and took aim once again.

  He missed with his third and fourth shots, and began to think he’d had beginner’s luck. The problem with the gun’s effectiveness was that he couldn’t pick up missed shots to reuse them. As aerodynamic as the blade-wands were, they could fly as far as several blocks and he’d have no way to find them again. He considered ways to track down misses as he squinted along the barrel, trying to place the sight right over the power line.

  “Harlan, what the hell are you doing?”

  Harlan whirled, ready to berate someone for interrupting his work. Gonsalvo stood by the shop door, gaping at him, his mouth moving without voice. He braced himself with one hand against the door frame and with the other felt at the length of copper welding wire, which emerged from his throat.

  Harlan gasped and looked down at his magnetic crossbow. There was no blade-wand in the tube. He didn’t even remember pulling the trigger but he must have. Blood sluiced from the neat four-inch-wide cut across Gonsalvo’s throat. The old mechanic sank to his knees, making unintelligible grunting sounds. He looked confused as to what happened. His eyes met Harlan’s, and then he pitched forward into the dust. The bloody mouth of the blade-wand pushed higher out of Gonsalvo’s neck when the man’s face hit the ground, like some bizarre monster being born.

  Harlan shoved his fist into his mouth and screamed against it. Gonsalvo had surprised him. He should have seen what Harlan was doing and not interrupted. If the old man had been a little more patient and a little cooler, he’d still be alive right now. Instead, he’d gotten himself killed, and that threatened to ruin all of Harlan’s meticulous plans.

  “Old fool,” grunted Harlan. Now he’d have to hurry. He loaded his last blade-wand and shot it, missing by a country mile because his hands were shaking. He’d have to hurry and make more so he could sever that second line and cut power once more.

  Wait. There was one more he could use.

  Harlan reached for the blade-wand poking from Gonsalvo’s neck. It was streaked with gore and sinew, but he needed it.

  One good yank and the blade-wand came free. Harlan brushed the blade dry against Gonsalvo’s shirt and checked it for imperfections. There was one notch, probably from when the crescent-shaped airfoil had cut through the man’s spine. Harlan didn’t think it would interfere with the missile’s flight. He loaded it into the magnetic crossbow and sighted down the barrel once more. This was his last chance. He took a slow, deep breath, held it, and pulled the trigger.

  With a shower of sparks, the second power line parted. Over the sound of passing traffic, Harlan could hear the groans and shouts of the locals as their power flow was interrupted for the second time that day. He smiled; his luck was holding. But now he had to really hustle to clean up the mess Gonsalvo had made.

  Grunting and sweating in the heat of the shop, Harlan dragged Gonsalvo’s body back to the Parts Room, where he hid it under a pile of burlap bags. He looked at the bloody trail he’d left. That wouldn’t do. An idea struck him, and he grabbed a couple quarts of automatic transmission fluid from Gonsalvo’s supplies. He poured the reddish fluid all along the bloodstains, and then sprinkled the mess with absorbent clay cat litter. He swept up the resultant slurry and deposited it all into a trash bin.

  Then he took up a sledgehammer and shattered his magnetic crossbow. He didn’t need the prototype any longer; he could rebuild a better one later when he had more time and materials to work with. Satisfied that he’d covered his tracks sufficiently until he could disappear into the morass of Harlem with Gretchen, he picked up the phone and dialed the operator to report a downed power line in the back lot of his friend’s building.

  Harlan set the two Just Cause passes on the workbench and then sat to wait for Gretchen to return to him. He’d already dealt with Gonsalvo’s death in his mind. When he’d hidden the body, that was the end of it. It wasn’t his fault that Gonsalvo had died; it was Gonsalvo’s. Served him right, thought Harlan. But it didn’t matter. The Con Ed man would come back, and Gretchen would be with him.

  He couldn’t stop grinning.

  #

  A heavy knock on Javier’s door startled Tommy out of a light sleep. After cleaning up the drug and alcohol mess in the apartment
and using his powers to dry the carpet, he’d sat in an easy chair and put his feet up. Just for a minute, he’d told himself. A glance at the wall clock showed he’d been dozing for about half an hour.

  He rubbed sleep out of his eyes and went to the door. Through the peephole he saw a stony expanse that could only belong to one man. He threw open the door and smiled at John Stone.

  “How’s he doing?” rumbled the gentle giant. He took slow, careful steps into the room in case his heavy weight might overstress the floor. He moved to the couch and arranged himself across it to distribute his heft over a larger surface area.

  Tommy yawned and stretched. “He’s been in and out of consciousness, and when he’s awake he’s not very coherent. From what I can tell, he came back here on a coke high, and must have called a couple of his girlfriends who brought him some quaaludes. All that plus booze…” Tommy shook his head. “I pumped his stomach. At least, I think I did. He’s lucky to be alive.”

  John shook his head. “He’s lucky you cared enough to come and check on him. You’re far more decent a fellow than he deserves.”

  Tommy toyed idly with his cape clasp. He felt drained. “What happened to us, John?” he asked. “When did we stop being superheroes and start being this way? Hell, I don’t even know what we are now.”

  “Celebrities?” asked John. “More than anything, that seems to be our job these days. Being famous. The Greatest Superheroes in the World.”

  “That used to actually mean something. When was the last time Just Cause actually helped anybody? How long since we were needed because we were superheroes, not because we were famous?”

  John scratched his jaw, stone dragging across cement. “When did we finally put down the Malice Group? Must have been about ’74. Right after you joined.”

  “I remember,” said Tommy with a wistful smile. “I was nineteen. Those were good times, taking them down. It felt like we were really doing some good.”

  “We did do some good,” said John. “We got some dangerous parahumans off the streets and saved a lot of lives and property.”

  “Sure, and what have we done since then? Nothing. We play poker and have parties. We appear at department store grand openings and in parades. We’re modeling nude and we’re addicted to drugs and alcohol.” A miniature twister formed in the middle of the floor, matching Tommy’s turbulent thoughts.

  He realized he’d been pacing as he spoke and whirled to face John. “We’ve become superfluous in modern society. Who in their right mind would challenge Just Cause? Nobody, because we’re the best, the Greatest Superheroes in the World. Why should Joe Blow use his super-strength to rob banks when he can join the team and have fame and fortune handed to him on a damned silver platter?”

  “What are you suggesting, Tommy? That you need to fight supervillains to feel useful?” John sounded amused.

  “No, of course not.” Tommy paused in his pacing. “But maybe Just Cause does.”

  “The organization does exist for that type of purpose,” rumbled John. “From its origins with parapowered commandos in World War Two to the American Justice team of old, Just Cause has always existed to battle against foes that normal law enforcement couldn’t handle.”

  “And we got so good at it that there’s nobody left to challenge us,” said Tommy. “No wonder we’ve sunk so far. Nobody needs us anymore.” Sudden angry tears threatened to overflow.

  “That’s not true and you know it,” said John. “Bobby said you saved a potential suicide’s life earlier today. She needed you. Every time we help people, they needed us, whether or not they realized it. And more importantly, we need each other. Javier needed you today. Maybe you’ll need him tomorrow.”

  “Maybe I’ll need you,” said Tommy with a ghost of a smile. “Maybe I do now.” There was so much more he wanted to say, but he couldn’t overcome the dark lump of fear crouching in his belly like a serpent ready to strike. He was terrified what would happen to his and John’s friendship if he dared clutter it up with an admission of love. In all the years he’d known John, Tommy had never heard the stone man speak of love or romance. That didn’t mean he didn’t crave it; inside that cold granite torso of his beat a heart as warm as anybody’s.

  Tommy dreamed that he might one day find the key to unlock John’s heart. Perhaps not today, he thought, as he heard Javier groan and retch from the bedroom.

  “Stay,” ordered John. “I’ll take a turn. You’ve earned it.”

  “John?”

  The stony figure turned to look back at Tommy. “Yes?”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  John smiled. “All things being equal, I’d rather I wasn’t.”

  #

  Shane wrestled with the broken conduit, splicing in fresh wire and coating the whole thing with a vile-smelling chemical paste. “It keeps the rats away,” he said. “But it only lasts a few days.” He was grimy from head to toe. Gretchen was certain she matched him stain for stain. Between the sewer slime and the soot from Shane soldering in a new section of conduit, she thought she might be the filthiest she’d ever been in her entire life.

  Shane checked his work once more and then stepped back, looking pleased. “Pop on up the ladder for me and yell down if the station power goes on.”

  “You got it,” Gretchen said. She scampered up the slick ladder and poked her head out the manhole. “Okay, go for broke,” she called back to Shane. Without fanfare, the overhead fluorescents turned on. She could see them through the open station windows. Whistles and sarcastic applause echoed within the police station as the officers realized they had to get back to work. “That did it,” she said.

  “Cool.” He grinned and closed the junction box. “Let’s close up the shop.” They climbed out of the manhole and Shane sealed it.

  A plainclothes officer approached them as they gathered up the orange cones. “Nice job, you two. It’s good that somebody in Con Ed gives a shit about Harlem.”

  Shane smiled at him. “I’m just glad we got it fixed so quickly.”

  The officer winked. “Your helper’s damn cute.” He signed a stack of papers on a clipboard thrust at him by Shane, but kept his eyes on Gretchen. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a girl working for Con Ed. You been with them long?”

  She shook her head. “I’m new.”

  “Doesn’t really seem like the kind of work most women would go into.”

  “My dad was an electrician back home. I worked with him.” The lie rolled off her tongue with such glib ease that she almost believed it herself.

  It must have satisfied the officer’s curiosity for he nodded and smiled. “What time do you get off tonight?”

  “We’re just starting our shift. Swings, you know,” said Shane. “In fact, we just got a hot call so we’d better be on our way.”

  The officer glared at him for a moment before smiling at Gretchen in an almost predatory way. “Pity, that.” He passed her a business card. “Listen, if you’re ever of a mind to have a late dinner, I’d love to take you out to one.”

  “Oh.” She slid the card into a pocket of her grimy coveralls. “Uh, thanks.”

  She and Shane retreated into the truck. She sat rigid in her seat and didn’t look at him until the truck was well away from the station and crawling up an on-ramp into rush hour traffic. Then she reached over and touched his arm. “Thank you,” she whispered. “He really caught me by surprise.”

  “I’d think you’d be used to it.” Shane checked his mirrors, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and didn’t look at her. “Pretty girl like you.”

  “What? Oh, no, I’m not,” she said. “I must be a real mess right now.”

  Shane bullied a smaller car until the driver braked to let the service truck over. “Remember, I saw you this morning before you had sewer slime and imploded rat all over you.” He finally glanced over at her. “Caught my eye.”

  “Oh.”

  “Listen, um…” He stabbed out the cigarette in the overflowing
ashtray and lit another. “I was kind of hoping that maybe I could take you out to dinner. You know, on account of you saving me from getting rat-bit and all.”

  Gretchen turned away and stared stonily out of the window. All of them do it sooner or later. Even the ones you think are nice, Elizabeth had said. Shane had been nothing but sweet and polite to her, and hadn’t made a single move toward her the entire day. He’d listened when she’d told him about her power, and hadn’t recoiled in disgust or fear the way people in her hometown would have. And there was no denying the moment in the sewer when she’d felt like kissing him. She peeked over at him as he smoked and drove in the awkward silence. A muscle twitched high up in his cheek. Maybe dinner could just be dinner, she thought. Time would tell.

  And if he tried anything, she had the power to protect herself, and she’d kill again if she had to.

  “I’d like that,” she said at last.

  Shane relaxed and his easygoing grin returned. “That’s great. Do you like Greek?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had it.”

  “If you feel adventurous, there’s a nice little café walking distance from my apartment. Otherwise there’s Italian, burgers, whatever. It’s Manhattan.”

  “Greek sounds fine to me.” Gretchen felt hungry enough to eat almost anything. “I’ll need to find someplace to clean up.”

  “Well, there’s a shower at the Con Ed station where I have to take the truck, but it’s not really co-ed. If you want to—and I totally understand if you say no—you could freshen up at my place. Me and my roommate keep it pretty clean. We’ve got extra towels and stuff. You can lock yourself in the bathroom and I’ll be a perfect gentleman and wait.” He smirked. “Besides, I don’t want you to do that implosion thing to me.”

  Gretchen gasped. It was like he could almost read her mind. She wondered suddenly if he was a parahuman too, but then dismissed that as a ludicrous notion. If he could read minds, he’d be on Just Cause. She couldn’t detect any trace of ulterior motives in his simple words. He was so sincere, she found herself almost trusting him.