by Daco
“You’ll notice that anything requiring electricity isn’t working,” Momo said.
It was true. The streetlights, billboards, and shop lights were out. Underground, the subway trains were stopped on their tracks. The city appeared to be at a standstill, and people were beginning to panic. Vehicles were crashing into one another.
Momo reappeared on the screen. “This is just an example of what I can do. If you don’t comply, I’ll take out other cities, one by one, until you do. The City of Angels will be next. And if that doesn’t convince you, after that, I’ll strike much closer to home in Britannia. All cities for which the Manchester Electric Company provides the electrical power. You know what’s funny? You’ll get the blame, not I. Because when the power goes out, the whole world will point a finger at you.”
The screen went blank.
Chapter 7
Meanwhile, in a hidden fortress ...
A satisfied Momo settled his powerful rugby-forward’s body back in his office chair at Momaxita’s secret hideaway, tucked away in the Mullgany Mountains. The estate was located a mere twenty miles north of Kensington City, but was as isolated and inaccessible as an inner Himalayan valley. He ran The Momaxita from various estates, including Vlad’s castle in Eastern Europa and the Nouveau Taj Mal in the Far East. But now that he was getting older, he was inching closer to home. Momo looked up and stared at the painting hanging on the wall. The landscape was the only thing he’d taken with him when he left, a panoramic view of the Kensington Valley painted in the late nineteenth century by the artist Loudon Lucerne. A reminder of his life’s goal.
Very soon, he would achieve that goal. By Friday evening, Alexa Manchester would convey the Manchester holdings, and he’d control the world’s energy. And then, he’d zap the power grid of every major city on the planet, bringing the governments of the world to their knees. Only he could restore the world’s power, which meant that he would control the world. They would have to pay tribute, do his bidding, and let him shape the world as he wanted—and he didn’t want to do it the way bleeding-heart Alexa Manchester did, giving away free energy to those who didn’t contribute. How delicious it all would be.
Momo turned to Biggie Bitterman, who was sitting in the corner. “Tell the chef to prepare lunch. Roast pheasant and a whole flounder filleted and stuffed with crab and lobster. Make sure he doesn’t forget the roasted potatoes and parsnips. While he’s at it, have him throw in some asparagus with hollandaise sauce. For dessert, I want a pint of strawberry ice cream over shortcake with berries coated in molasses.”
“Is that all, sir?”
“Hmm, I think I’ll have a porterhouse. Two, maybe three inches thick, nice and juicy. Mashed potatoes with au jus. Three artichokes. To start with.” He shot Bitterman a threatening stare. “You’ll remember all this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’d better. And make sure the steak is center cut, and tell the chef not to trim the fat. Just north of rare, somewhat south of medium rare, but it better not be rare. And every morsel must be fresh and organic.” Momo raised his arms and flexed his biceps, admiring himself. He was proud that, despite his voracious appetite, he’d maintained his muscular, power-lifter’s physique throughout the years. He credited his high metabolism and all-around brilliance for his Gladiator-like build.
“As always, sir,” Bitterman said. The freshness of Momo’s food was no small matter. The last chef had suffered an untimely, and very fatal, “accident” for substituting genetically modified brown rice after running out of the organic. Another had died because he’d served Momo leftovers. Leftovers were nothing but a breeding ground for bacteria and so completely unsuitable for Momo’s perfectly sculpted body.
“You want all this now?” Bitterman asked.
Momo sprung forward in his chair, pounding his fists on the desk in front of him. “Don’t be a fool, Biggie. I’ll have the steak for dinner. What do you think I am, a glutton?”
“Will there be anything else with the steak?”
“Just tell cook to surprise me with the rest of the meal and not to skimp. I’m celebrating my impending success. None of that nouvelle cuisine."
"Got it." Bitterman left, returning a few minutes later. “The cook needs a couple hours.” He set down a tray of cheeses and cold cuts with a long loaf of bread. “A small snack in the meantime, sir.”
Bitterman reached to help himself to a thin, meager slice of cheese, but Momo stabbed the back of his hand with his fork. “Not so fast, Biggie.”
Bitterman whimpered but wasn’t able to withdraw his hand until Momo raised the fork. Then he rubbed the back of his hand where the impression from the tines was distinctly visible. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t have breakfast.”
Momo eyed the platter to decide if Bitterman had snuck a bite before delivering the tray. His attention was diverted with a loud boom! The explosion rattled the house from the root cellar up to the rafters. It had come from the laboratory downstairs.
Bitterman flinched and looked as if he wanted to duck under a chair for cover, but Momo didn’t move a muscle. “Ah. It sounds like the experiments are going just fine.” Momo returned to scrutinizing the cheese for any sign that Bitterman had contaminated his plate.
The telephone rang. Momo jerked the handle off the hook. “This better be good. I’m about to eat my snack before lunch. You know how I hate it when my meals are interrupted.”
It was The Momaxita’s Siberitan operative. “Sorry for the interruption, sir. The keys are in transit as we speak.”
“Good.” Momo hung up the phone, devoured four slices of salami—from grass fed beef, of course—and said, “Soon we’ll control Siberita and the Arctica.
At that moment, Professor Sivley Slipter, a tall, gangly, knocked-kneed man with raggedy red hair, entered the room, shaking as though he’d been beaten with a wooden spoon and hung upside down by his toes with clothespins. His glasses, the lenses of which were half an inch thick, were spotted with some kind of debris.
Bitterman announced Professor Slipter’s presence with a cough.
Momo looked up and pushed the tray of food to the side. “What is it, Slipter? It better be good to interrupt my prelunch. You know how much I hate to have my meals interrupted.”
Professor Slipter’s knees buckled, and he had to grab on to an end table to keep from falling.
“Get your hands off my furniture, Slipter. You know I don’t like fingerprints on my antiques.”
Professor Slipter removed his hands, bobbled a bit, but stayed upright.
“Now what is it? In thirty words or less.”
“We have a problem, sir, and I think I know what’s causing it. The Electromite you provided appears unstable. Mickey Manchester’s diagrams and journals keep referring to a superconductive ceramic casing that was used to control the Electromite. We don’t have the casing.” He paused. “I hope this was less than thirty words.” Slipter wobbled again. “And I hope that last sentence doesn’t count.”
“I thought you had that issue figured out,” Momo said. “Your brilliant computer models aren’t so brilliant?”
“No, sir. I-I mean, Yes, sir!” The man trembled. “I-I’ve recreated a casing, but it keeps cracking.”
“So what do you propose?”
“Well, if it’s not too much trouble, if we could get our hands on Manchester’s prototype, I could solve the problem. The plans just don’t spell out the chemical formulation of the ceramic.”
“Not too much trouble? Not too much trouble?! To go into a maximum-security facility and find a prototype that is hidden somewhere, of which we don’t have any pictures, that might weigh anywhere from a few pounds to a ton? Of course, it’s too much trouble! You’ve failed me, Slipter.”
“But, sir, I haven’t. Basically, everything is working. We’re zapping whomever we want. Taking down power grids. I call that success. We seem to be able to destabilize any energy source we hit, stop generators, down the power stations. But we have not achieved perfecti
on. For perfection, we need the prototype. And I know you want perfection, sir.” Professor Slipter ran a hand through the strands of his stringy hair, leaving them standing on end as if he’d been zapped. “Ah, and there’s a second problem, sir.”
“Spill it. In thirty words or less, this time.”
“The Electromite itself.”
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s unstable. The subatomic structure is unlike anything on this planet. It’s destabilized—”
“Balls! Mickey Manchester said it wasn’t radioactive, nothing like plutonium or uranium.”
Professor Slipter stood silently.
“Well, get on with it man,” Momo said.
“I’ve used up my thirty words, sir,” Professor Slipter said.
Momo used a large hand to straighten his bib. “Just get on with it!”
Professor Slipter gulped. “It’s true that the mineral isn’t radioactive, but the stability is different. We’re dealing with something science has never before seen. We can’t begin to fully understand its internal properties in the short time we’ve had the substance. It’s quite remarkable that we’ve been able to harness its energy at all.”
“Stop talking gibberish, Slipter. And stop patting yourself on the back. You do know how I despise braggarts.”
“When we enclose the Electromite inside our ceramic casing, we can only get it to emit its energy in the direction that we want in short spurts. We have no control of the substance outside of the casing. It’s acting well, wildly, sir. Moving unpredictably, blasting things we don’t want to blast.”
“Then keep it enclosed.”
“If we keep it enclosed, we can’t perform experiments to make a better casing. If you want the perfect weapon of mass destruction, we have to perform our experiments. In all honesty, we need the prototype casing.”
Momo shook his head. “You’re making me dizzy, Slipter.”
“Sorry, sir. I know it’s a bit confusing. When we see the elemental particles of a substance behaving oddly, there’s usually a reason. It’s almost as if the Electromite is trying to get back missing parts.” Professor Slipter continued, completely oblivious to the heat rising in Momo. “You see, it all comes down to spin.”
“Slipter!” Momo cried. “You’re making my head spin.”
Professor Slipter was trembling so wildly that his knees knocked several times. “I’m speaking of particle physics and quantum mechanics,” he said. “Orbital angular momentum is the quantum-mechanical counterpart to what we call the classical notion of angular momentum. It arises when a particle executes a rotating or twisting trajectory. Think of it as an electron orbiting a nucleus. The carrying force is a boson with spin 1. It includes the photon, which carries the electromagnetic force, the gluon, which is the strong force, and the W and Z boson, which is the weak force. The point is that bosons can occupy the same quantum state. Before we found the Electromite, we could only predict the existence of an elementary boson with a greater spin. The Electromite contains a God particle—the graviton with a spin 2! It’s the source, the vehicle, of this incredible power! When it works.”
“You’re talking gibberish, man,” Momo said.
“The God particles are searching for their missing angels,” Professor Slipter said. “The only way to control the Electromite with missing bosons is to encase it in the exact superconductive ceramic casing that Manchester created. Unless, of course, we somehow find the missing pieces. Someone might have taken them, or they might not be on this planet. The point is, if we can’t fully control the Electromite, it means we can’t control your weapon of ultimate destruction—The Big Zapper. Your mega laser.”
“So, you mean, when we made the exchange with that crook, Mayor Baumgartner, we didn’t get everything we needed?”
“Possibly. We didn’t get the original ceramic casing that held the Electromite. Beyond that, we should’ve gotten the prototype.”
“Bitterman!” Momo shouted, rising from his chair and pointing at his underling. “This is on you!”
“Sir, I did just as you asked,” Bitterman said. “You wanted the Electromite, and I delivered it. There was no talk of any casing or prototype.”
Momo’s blood pressure was off the charts. He took a menacing step toward Bitterman and said, “I pay you to be creative, not just to follow orders.” Then he turned to Professor Slipter and said, “Show me.”
Professor Slipter led the way downstairs to the laboratory. The room, previously pristine, was in a state of disaster. Black debris covered the walls. Test tubes lay broken on benches. Small shards of glass were scattered across the floor. Professor Slipter’s assistants were covered from head to toe in black soot.
“Where’s the meteorite?” Momo asked.
Professor Slipter pointed to a bench across the room. The Electromite sat enclosed inside a thick glass case, which was encased inside another, and then another. As it vibrated, the mineral glowed silver and emitted sparks of pure white light, striking the casing walls.
“Is that thing moving?” Momo asked. “It wasn’t when Bitterman first brought it in.”
“Yes, it’s become unstable,” Professor Slipter said. “That’s why we need the prototype.”
“Is it dangerous?” Momo asked.
“Hard to say, sir.”
Momo glowered at Professor Slipter. “Hard to say! Hard to say?”
“We’ve taken every precaution. We don’t even handle it without using hazmat suits.”
“What about The Big Zapper. Was it damaged in the explosion?”
“No, sir, fortunately,” Professor Slipter said nervously. “But let me remind you, sir, it will function just fine when we have the prototype, missing Electromite or not.”
“Prove it to me,” Momo said.
Professor Slipter hurried across the laboratory and flipped a switch on the wall. A heavy metal door opened, revealing a three-story room with a domed-hatched opening at the top. The Big Zapper, a story high, sat mounted in the middle of the room. Like a high-powered telescope in an observatory, the weapon was aimed toward the sky. Only it wasn’t meant for stargazing.
Momo stared at his masterpiece. His jaw flapped open. “You said it wasn’t damaged. There’s a dent.”
“That’s just a bit of damage to the base that holds the ceramic casing and Electromite. It happened right after we delivered the zap to The Big Apple’s electrical grid. The switch jammed, and someone yanked it in the wrong direction. Don’t worry, this is only a slight inconvenience.”
“Does it affect The Big Zapper’s operability?” Momo asked.
“Temporarily, sir,” Professor Slipter said, his voice cracking like a frightened adolescent. “We’ll only be out of business until we make another casing. We can’t use the one that cracked. But not to worry, sir. We should have The Big Zapper back online very soon.”
Momo’s face burned hot with rage. “Who is to blame?”
Everyone in the room fell silent.
“Who is to blame? Slipter, if I don’t get a name, the buck stops with you!” He stood glaring down at Professor Slipter.
Professor Slipter shifted his eyes to an assistant, who was cowering behind a lab table across the room. “Porter Popper loaded the casing, sir. It looked fine. Honestly. He only missed an insignificant latch. You can see that The Big Apple no longer has power, so ...”
“You!” Momo shouted to the unfortunate Porter Popper.
“Sir, please let me explain,” Popper said. “There was a sudden, unexpected shift in weather patterns, and that coupled with the rock’s instability caused The Big Zapper to shake. I didn’t see the latch. The dent was—”
Momo picked up a handheld proton particle beam, a device meant to incinerate toxic debris. He aimed and fired. On the floor where Porter Popper had stood was less ash than could’ve been generated from a lighted cigar.
Momo turned and aimed the weapon at Professor Slipter. “I want The Big Zapper fixed no later than two o’clock Friday aft
ernoon. Do I make myself clear?”
The professor quivered. “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.”
“Then why are you standing there gawping at me?” Momo asked.
“Because we still need one of two things, sir. The missing piece of Electromite or Mickey Manchester’s prototype of the ceramic casing.”
“Ah yes, your angels,” Momo said. Then he turned and pointed a finger. “Bitterman! I have a job for you.”
Chapter 8
Back at the mansion ...
Only after that hideous Momo disappeared from Alexa’s television screen did the anger erupt inside her. She raced from the kitchen and up to her bedroom so that she could be alone. The physical transformation had begun, and though she tried to control it, stop it—at least slow it down—she was soon Electromancer. She stopped in front of the mirror, where she studied her naked image. She did look like a mythical goddess, with her long-flowing platinum hair. Electricity pulsed through her nervous system and filled her with immeasurable energy. She felt light as air, so she bent her legs and gently sprang upward. Her body left the ground, and she rose several feet. With a slight tightening of her thigh muscles, she stopped rising and was able to hover. When she relaxed her muscles, she slowly descended to the floor. My God, not only could she fly, but she could control the experience!
But what about her clothes? She couldn’t fight anyone looking like this.
There was a knock at the door. “May I come in, dear?” Gladys asked.
Electromancer opened the door to let Gladys in. The older woman was holding a platinum body suit in one hand and boots and gloves in the other.
“I was up all night sewing. I don’t know if your father ever told you, but when he refined the Electromite, he discovered a wonderful by-product—he called it Electroweave. It’s not Electromite, but a close cousin. He asked me to use it when I made your wedding dress.” The woman gave her a knowing look. “I think you need it now. He told me that the fabric is almost indestructible.”
Electromancer looked at the suit with wide eyes and then quickly put it on. The outfit was skintight but felt as comfortable as if it were part of her own body. “It’s perfect, Gladys. Thank you.” Then they went downstairs, where Sigfred and Chef Yurdlemon were waiting.
