The Machinist Part One: Malevolence
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Owl himself was paralyzed on Brass Wednesday. He’s been seeking out non-traditional treatment in the Middle East and Asia, but says if he’s unable to rejoin that his nephew will be prepared to take up the mantle in a few months. We’re holding the spot in either case, in deference to the fact that there’s been an Owl on the team since the Big One.”
“You’ve got two rookies, Machinist and Torch, joining you. You’ve all met or seen each other on TV, and there’s work to do, so socialize later.”
No one seemed surprised. The elder secret agent kept talking.
Hawke started circling around the table slowly. “Ravencloak is on assignment, and you’ll be filled in, in just a moment. That said, Rampart remains the team leader. When in the field, absolute authority defaults to him. Rampart?”
The team’s leader stood up from his seat and pressed a button on the table. A holographic map of the state of Oklahoma began rotating in the middle of the room. He pointed at it. “Oklahoma City is our destination. The local heroine, Laur—uh, the Editor—reported an outbreak of what she called ‘zombie spores’ a few hours before we lost contact with her. Ravencloak was dispatched to investigate.”
The floating image turned into the shape of a rather bland looking building. Rampart went on, saying, “We’ve confirmed reports of citizens turning rabid and attacking and killing their unaffected neighbors. It appears to be centered around the university college of medicine, which is important because …”
Again, the hologram morphed. Hill blinked to clear his vision. A translucent representation of his old cellmate, Henri Krudoff, floated in the air. If Hill hadn’t been wearing a mouth-covering mask, the other heroes would probably have noticed his slack jaw. He struggled to regain his composure.
“The body of one Doctor Horror—“
“Doctor Terror,” Hill corrected, as matter-of-factly as he could. Hawke shot him a glare so cold it could have frozen the Devil’s balls.
Rampart glanced at Hill, then back at the hologram. Sure enough, the words Doctor Terror were floating beneath the disembodied head. The hero cleared his throat to cover for his gaffe. “—I misread it. Doctor Terror passed away in Blackiron two days ago, and his body was transported to the university per his wishes.”
Sprint and Torch groaned as one. Even the two youngest heroes on the squad knew that it was a bad idea to grant a dying wish to a super villain.
“His body had been donated for study,” Rampart went on. “And when the autopsy was performed, a capsule containing some form of biological element was broken. Airborne spores …”
Krudoff’s head turned into a spiky ball with menacing thorns protruding from it at random intervals.
“… Were released, turning anyone who inhaled them into mindless, violent monstrosities.”
The hologram disappeared. Hawke took a drag from his cigar and spoke.
“We need this contained before it spreads. I know you are down a man, and you haven’t all worked together before, but—“ Hawke looked right at Hill—“I need to make sure you can handle it.”
The other heroes noticed their de facto boss’ gaze and turned their heads to Hill.
He met Hawke’s gaze, and replied with as much confidence as he could muster:
“Of course we can.” Underneath his mask, he smiled a sly grin. “We’re heroes, aren’t we?”
END OF BOOK ONE.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First I would like to thank the many professional writer and editor friends of mine who have looked this piece over as it developed. I will single out William Vitka for his tremendous insight in to the pulp fiction philosophy, and Laurie Laliberte for her patience with my culturally-confused grammar and inability to filter out adverbs. But there are many more of you who’ve contributed in a worthwhile way and I thank you all. You know who you are.
The handful of my friends who took the time to read this over and give me honest feedback helped me grow as a writer. I particularly thank Mari and Dan, who not only beta-read several terrible drafts of this, but also allowed me to use characters they created in a superhero roleplaying game we played together for years as the basis of heroes who appear in this story.
I also must acknowledge my beloved Maria. She encouraged me throughout this whole process, giving me feedback on the outline of the story when it was in its infancy, to its final form. She was patient and gave me the space I needed when I needed it, and was there for me when I hit walls with the story, too. She pushed me to get the work done without lying to me about the quality (or lack thereof) of what I’d produced each day and moved me to make it better. Two of the superheroes featured in this story, and at least one supervillain from the second book in this series, are based on characters of her own creation. But most importantly, she loves me despite my terrible personality and horrible, ogre-like disfigurement, and I love her for it.
And finally, I need to thank you, the reader. You are giving me a chance despite having never heard of me, and yet you’ve downloaded an eBook copy or were perhaps crazy enough to buy a print-on-demand version. You will not be disappointed. Thank you.
Alexander Maisey
Nyack, NY