Gravitas: A Supervillain Story

by Ben Mason

  Gravitas

  Ben Mason

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Author Notes

  About the Author

  Newsletter

  Copyright info

  Prologue

  The sleek jet was silent as it cut through the frozen Siberian snowstorm. Inside the spare cabin four men were silent. The two guards at the back had their guns trained on one man.

  Christoph Holtz thought it was mildly amusing. “Tell them to put them down, Robert. I’d hate to crash in the middle of nowhere.”

  The fourth man, Robert Warren, waved them down. He was dressed in a decently tailored blue suit, one made for those of middle income, and had the silver hair and sharp lines of a high-class government employee. His eyes were steel blue and held plenty of secrets.

  Christoph was one of them. So were this mission and the item they were going to collect.

  For his own efforts Christoph wore a tailored black suit—high-end, thank you very much. It was a testament to his years as a top worker and his own skills that he preferred formal dinner attire to tactical for jobs. It gave him a sense of elegance.

  His hair was silver and swept back, his gray eyes riveted to the government minder sitting across from him. If someone had been painting a portrait he might have pegged him as minor European nobility rather than a child of Skokie, Illinois who had polished off his accent.

  Christoph allowed a smile to flit across his mouth as he saw the two young men lower their weapons, their eyes going to each other in fear and warning. He normally hated intimidating the normals, but they had violated a cardinal rule in Christoph’s mind: They had been rude, insulting both his power and pointing at him.

  Finger or gun, it was all the same.

  “What are we getting, Robert?” Christoph said as he turned his gray eyes on the minder.

  Robert sighed, pulling a metal disk from his jacket. “Still not going to call me Bob, are you?”

  “It’s not proper.”

  Robert gave a shrug. He tapped the disk with his thumb while he held it and a glowing hologram shot out. It was of the mountain they were approaching, along with a circular building jutting out of it. “We’ve got some intel on an item being held by the Russians. Or maybe it’s the Chinese. Or even renegade Karpathians.”

  Karpathians? The idea of those underwater hermits either losing some technology or having a traitor give it away shocked Christoph. What was the world coming to?

  “Needless to say we have no right to check it out or even attempt to enter this place.”

  “Which is why you need me.”

  “Exactly,” Robert said, as he tapped the disk again. The mountain disappeared leaving the building. A flashing red dot appeared on the far right side of the roof and then directly down below it. “We’ll try and land you as close as we can to the entry point. You work your magic, then…” Robert gave a tip of his head this way and that.

  “Get out in one piece with the item,” Christoph finished.

  “You do it and we wipe the slate clean. New name, no record, and we’ll add in a pension. So—you know—you don’t go back to ‘work.’”

  Christoph gave a soft chuckle. “Unlikely. I’m getting too old to stay in the game. I’m turning sixty-one next month.”

  “Congrats.”

  “Tell me that after I get back,” Christoph said.

  One of the soldiers touched his ear and gave a nod. “Gravitas to position.”

  Christoph got up, his knees clicking a little. A part of growing old. He was doing better than your average soon-to-be senior, but it didn’t make it any less depressing.

  A small ramp opened from the middle of the craft, a gust of sharp air blasting up, making his hands clench. I’m getting too old for this.

  The thought depressed him. He forced himself to turn it around. No one lasted in any business forever. Certainly not in his. The deal he was getting (and for one job) was more than a good option. It was the best he could hope for.

  Closing his eyes as he moved down the ramp, the frost collecting on his lapels, he exhaled and then jumped.

  Three seconds. That was the amount of time Christoph allowed himself to enjoy it before he started increasing his density. He wasn’t sure what kind of metal the Russians or whatever silly organization that was hiding in their country was using, but if they were able to infiltrate the Karpathians, it was going to be top-notch.

  He hurtled through the air faster as he became strong as steel, then diamond. His arms went to his sides and his eyelids came slamming down. The one drawback of using the power on himself. It didn’t leave much room for nuance. If it had been his one move, he would’ve had a career on the C-list for sure.

  Thank God for small mercies.

  Landing on the roof, he felt the metal bend beneath him, crunching in, squealing as his weight pressed down. A second later it dropped and so did he. There wasn’t enough time to pull away all of the applied density so Christoph settled for steel. When he landed it made his knees wobble a little.

  He sighed. Too much, too soon. His joints weren’t what they had been before. Standing up, clutching a metal stand for support he got up and…realized he was holding the base of the stand that housed the helmet.

  “Well, hurray for me,” he said snatching it up. Holding it in the light from the hole, he saw it was a large chrome contraption with a lot of bulk piled on top. The kind of thing he bet Mental Master or the Sinister Synapse would have cackled over. Poor old fools. Time hadn’t been kind to them, nor had the media portrayals. At least they weren’t around to see it.

  The light vanished as Christoph appraised the item. Staring up he saw a secondary, emergency shutter had been deployed to patch the opening. A second later an alarm started screeching with tacky red lights flashing every five feet.

  “Wonderful,” he said not wanting to think about the damage to his ears. He had been avoiding hearing aids. Getting out of this place was going to be a nightmare now. Adjusting the lapels of his jacket (both horribly torn, it was going to take a miracle worker to save this mess), he marched toward the door.

  It was one of those sliding metal contraptions complete with a hand scanner and number code interface off to the side. The bolts were supposed to be able to withstand any pressure up to five tons. So Christoph made it seven, directly down. The door tore away, sliding like a cheap garage door.

  A moment later gunfire erupted. It was dazzling, forcing Christoph to hunch down, not to protect his body, but his eyes. He had suspected trouble and left the applied gravity field in front of him, forcing the bullets to drop harmlessly and embed themselves in the ground. Stepping over them, still hunched over the helmet with his eyes shut, he was sure there was more gunfire being added, forcing him to create a bubble around himself.

  In t
he old days it would have been the wave of a hand, with an offhand-comment about the dangers of repetitive actions and insanity. Now it was forcing him into a sweat, making him break into a clumsy jog as he rushed down what he was sure was the main stretch of hallway to the outer gate, and, to his freedom.

  He made it about halfway before an explosive pain ate at his right knee, forcing him to scream in pain. Luckily, he had learned pain was a wonderful power amplifier. A dozen forms in the darkness flattened onto their bellies, their guns becoming flatter still. The smell of cordite filled the room, leaving it heavy with the stench. Any chance of saving the suit was now gone.

  Taking a moment to compose himself, checking to make sure the helmet was unharmed, Christoph buttoned his jacket (not the bottom button, never the bottom). “Now, gentlemen. I’m taking this little souvenir with me,” he said, holding up the helmet. “Surely professionals such as yourselves can see the waste of ammo and potential harm to yourselves as a fruitless endeavor. So I ask, may I have the key card and retire from here unmolested?”

  Nobody spoke for a second. “He’s bluffing,” a man said. He spoke in Russian. “Superheroes don’t kill people.”

  The next moment the man started grunting in pain. “I promise you, I find no joy in this, but I will kill you if I have to. Give me the key to get out,” Christoph said. He felt his power ebbing. Whatever bullet had struck his leg, it was sapping his strength fast. If they didn’t give him a way out, he was going to have to kill them.

  No. These are working men, maybe with families.

  A card slid toward him in the darkness and, with some effort, he bent down and picked it up. “Thank you,” he said shuffling off.

  “Wait,” one of the men said. He spoke in accented English.

  Christoph turned.

  “What kind of hero are you?”

  He gave the man a slight smile. “Who said anything about being a hero? I’m a super villain.”

  Limping the rest of the way, he opened the door. The jet was waiting for him. His leg screamed with pain as the soldiers rushed out to grab him.

  As they rushed forward he gave a small chuckle. “Definitely too old,” he said and fell forward into their arms.

  Chapter 1

  Nine Years Later

  Christoph struggled with the grocery bags in his arms, his silver-tipped cane taking up his right hand. Even with the bags and their contents resting at about one-third of their natural weight, it was difficult to keep them from spilling out of his thin arms. Light eggs broke as easily as those under regular gravity. And heaven forbid he get any orange juice on his button-down or his black slacks. He may have been retired, but that was no reason for a man’s sense of dress to go to seed.

  Trying to adjust the groceries one last time, Christoph allowed himself a moment to breathe in the fresh air and enjoy his surroundings. The fresh-cut grass, the large lawns with decent hedges instead of the mass-produced small box plots of the middle class homes. It was green and blue and freshly painted like one of those tacky paintings from Thomas Kinkade. And—God help him—Christoph sort of enjoyed it.

  Keeping his feet on the concrete walkway he moved up to his house, a robin’s eggshell and cream white painted ranch style number.

  “Now the tricky part,” he said. Placing his cane against the archway he fumbled for his keys. A dull throb came to him as he did, forcing him to clench them.

  Nine years. Nine years later and it still hurt. Not just physically either. For Gravitas, one of the greatest villains of the Silver Age to be hobbled by a random bullet…it had been a mercy giving him a false identity and moving him up the coast, away from Selenium City. No chance of meeting any caped crusaders out here. And with so much time gone—a decade in jail, almost another out to pasture—no one was going to pull him out of the telephone booth now.

  “They don’t even have those anymore,” he said, chuckling at his dated phrases. Getting the keys into the door he swung it open just in time for the rotten eggs (in nature, not sell date) to tumble out of the bag and onto his entryway.

  “Drat and curses,” he hissed. Biting back the urge to use real curses, Christoph put down the bags, got his keys from the door, and made his way to the kitchen to get a sponge and some soap. Thankfully he had wooden floors, and if he moved fast there was unlikely to be any permanent stains or smells.

  He stumbled as he entered the room clutching the marble-topped island, dodging the low hanging cooking utensils hung from the hanging rack. The leg had been troubling him all day. It didn’t happen often.

  But it’s happening more and more. Another sign the best years of his life were gone. The years when he meant something. If the past was any indication, his mood was going to be sour all day.

  A drink might help. He needed—

  Christoph stopped. Standing straight to his full height he took in the room. In spite of his pain, a thin smile broke out on his face.

  “Pantry closet, and I suspect you’ve gotten into the macaroons.”

  The door to his right stayed shut for a second before being swung open. Julie was there beaming. She was dressed in jean overalls with a pink shirt underneath. Her cornrows were pulled into a topknot with pink and purple ballies and beads wrapped around it.

  “Made sure not to leave crumbs this time,” she said.

  Inspecting the floor, then the corners of her mouth and chin, Christoph gave her a solemn nod. “Indeed.”

  “I heard you raise your voice,” Julie said stepping forward.

  “Sharp girl,” Christoph said. She was too. It was part of what he found infuriating—and refreshing—about her. Those impish eyes dancing with mischief, the grin that came out when she was trying to pull off a caper. She was a natural-born villain if there ever was one. When she became a teenager she was going to be a menace to the neighborhood.

  “You look tired,” she said.

  “It’s rude to say that to old people.”

  “You’re not old.”

  The smile on his face widened. “Ah, Julie, you do an old man good. How did you get in this time?”

  “Doggy door.”

  “Oh?”

  She pointed over to the kitchen door, which led to the side garden. It was made for a medium-sized dog. For an eleven-year old beanpole of a girl it was a bit of a tight fit. “Got in half way and opened it. You need a bolt lock right above the knob.”

  Her mocha skin wasn’t smudged by dirt and neither were her clothes so he had no way of knowing if she was telling the truth, but he bet she was.

  “How many macaroons did you have?” He gave her a reward for helping him find weaknesses in his home defenses. Really he was giving her a prize for being so devious.

  “Five,” she said quickly.

  “Julie. Say it slower and meet my eyes next time. Otherwise I’ll get suspicious.”

  She sighed, staring up with a hangdog look. “Seven.”

  “Much better. And the real number?”

  “Twelve. Can I clean up the mess?”

  “Of course,” Christoph said. He waved her on. Most days he would have said no—a gentleman never let a lady do such work—but it was one of his hard days. When he drank a few too many whiskeys (or whatever else he had on hand) and dwelled on a few too many dark thoughts.

  Julie placed the bags on the island then disappeared with a wet rag before he was able to stop her. She was a good kid. Not a great thing to be if you wanted to be a villain in this day and age. Christoph’s mouth fell into a scowl. The new breed: no class, no art, and no self-respect. Even his own protégé Cerebrus (the poor boy had thought people would call him Ce-Re-Brus instead of assuming he was named after a three headed dog) was a bit of a disappointment. Using his telepathy and telekinesis to use normals as hostages. Well the fault lay with the teacher.

  The pain in his leg stabbed deeper as if in response. When it got this bad sometimes his powers flared out of control. No more than for a moment, but with the girl around, that was all he needed.

&nb
sp; “Got it cleaned up Mr. Morgan,” she said. It took him a second to remember Walt Morgan was his alias.

  “Thank you, child,” he said turning. His eyes went wide when he saw his cane. It was cradled in her hands. “Give that to me!” he snarled.

  Julie froze in place, her eyes getting wide. He tried to move forward and founds his movements jerky and frustrating before he snatched it from her.

  Panting he felt his face fall. “I’m sorry child, I didn’t mean—it’s my leg. Where are your parents?” he said, feeling a sheen of sweat over his face.

  “They told me to not come over. They were having friends.”

  “And they didn’t want you to be a problem. Why?” The girl was wonderful around company, someone to be proud of, not hide away.

  Julie hesitated, staring at her feet. “I think they’re scared. I don’t think the people coming over are friends at all.” She raised her head and there was worry in her eyes. She was too smart to be afraid for no reason. So were her parents.

  The Kimbles were both respectable people, and Mr. Kimble, a doctor who was former army, was an intimidating presence at six two. Whoever was coming over either had them financially strapped or…no, the possibility was ridiculous. But worth investigating.

  “I’ll walk you over, child,” Christoph said, walking back to his hallway and fetching his jacket from his coatrack. “I want to meet these friends of theirs.”

  Christoph saw the extra car in the driveway as they moved across the street to the Kimbles’ two-story Georgian Colonial. He took a moment to slick his hair back and draw himself up, trying to look regal and imposing instead of tired and old.