by Ben Bequer
But I had to go, to take the chance, even if I didn’t know what it was about. This was my one shot and I was ready for it.
My bow was unstrung in a six foot case that bounced on my back along with my full quiver of arrows. I even brought “the nuke.” Just having that arrow would put me in jail for twenty years. I also had my belt and boots, loaded with my gadgets and tricks, many of which were patently illegal.
The bow, quiver and the costume were irrefutable proof that I was Blackjack. It was only the lack of evidence, and Atmosphero’s stupidity, that had kept me from Utopia prison the first time around. Sandy had engineered that deal, and thinking about it now was making me more nervous. I’d see the light of day in fifty years if Sandy was betraying me.
Then I thought: what could they bring to stop me? If Atmo came alone, he was in trouble, and I think he knew it. No, he’d show with his crew, Rising Force, to minimize the damage to property and injuries to innocent civilians. Faced with a full super group, I’d have to back down, right? Yeah, they would expect me to hand over my stuff and do my fifty years quietly.
But I wasn’t going to go down easy. I didn’t care what they brought, Blackjack would be ready. Blackjack wouldn’t back down.
* * *
As I approached the meeting location, I started feeling a bit more comfortable.
Hyperion Avenue was bustling with rush hour traffic, and the sidewalks were replete with foot and bicycle traffic. It wasn’t isolated. And it was a terrible place for them to arrest me. I still kept my bow case handy, and my cowl and cape wrapped around my waist like a sash in case I needed to conceal myself quickly.
I jogged up lightly and bought a water bottle from a vending machine as I looked at my watch. The run had taken twenty-three minutes and thirty two seconds, over a linear course of 6.51 miles.
My watch was the Omega Seamaster Planet Ocean I had stolen, except highly modified. It was probably my most technically advanced creation. It had miniaturized a CPU, flash drive and HD display inside the shell. The display flashed and I swapped modes to input. A series of lights fired off from a sensor holo-emitter to the fleshy part of my forearm in the shape of keys from a keyboard. In this mode, my watch was a fully functioning wrist-mounted computer.
I spent hours upon hours working on my inventions, and in particular, my combat gadgets, for the sheer joy of coming up with new and interesting things to disable or otherwise defeat my enemies. But there was also a more practical reason. Sandy had wondered why I bothered with the bow and gadgets. Well, using this stuff allowed me to forgo my strength for most things.
Special magnetic armored car doors aside, my super strength could easily get me into trouble. A super like Atmosphero was made of the same stuff as me, so he could take a punch or two. But slugging a regular Joe, like a security guard or one of those cops from the park wouldn’t leave much for the medical examiner to identify. I may be the bad guy, but I didn’t want to kill anyone.
A brown suburban with tinted windows made a big hubbub on Hyperion right in front of me. It turned from the opposing lane, did an illegal U-turn mid-traffic, and came up beside me.
The rear passenger door opened and a woman greeted me. She was in her mid- thirties and while she was dressed conservatively, nothing could conceal her stunning beauty. Her hair was dark brown, almost black in a longer than bob-cut and parted to the left with a trail of bangs held seductively low and almost into her left eye. Her eyes were brown and serious, but with a hint of playfulness at the corners. Her full lips were pouty, and she pursed them in anticipation as I neared.
“You must be Blackjack,” she said, holding the door open.
I nodded.
“Put your things in trunk and get in,” she said, and the driver popped the trunk.
Once I had thrown everything in the back, I came around, sat inside, and the truck sped off.
“My name is Dr. Ellen Walsh,” she told me, reaching out her hand which I shook.
“I’m Blackjack,” I said, introducing myself for the first time to anyone using only my new name. I was in my normal costume, but without my cowl, cape and face mask.
It felt good.
She stared at me with a strange smile on her face, a confident smile, but she was for some reason unaffected by me, as most other women were. Dr. Walsh was also un-phased by my use of the hero name, it was okay with her. In this world, it was expected.
“What would you like a drink?”
“Whiskey on the rocks if you got it,” I said. “Beer if you don’t have that, and water if that’s all you have.”
She leaned over to the mini bar and drew out a bottle of Hankey Bannister 40 year-old Scotch whiskey in its original Glencairn crystal decanter. A smile crossed her face when she saw my expression.
“Skip the rocks,” I said, wanting to taste the true flavor of the world-renowned whiskey.
Dr. Walsh served me and herself then tipped her glass towards mine.
“A toast,” she said. I joined her glass to mine. “May you be in Heaven fifteen minutes before the devil knows you’re dead.”
I nodded and took a long swig of the whiskey, not bothering to nose it, and kept it in my mouth for a good five seconds before swallowing it and then taking a big, deep breath. I closed my eyes as its enticing aroma and alluring flavor enveloped me.
“Nirvana,” I said.
She giggled, “I prefer vodka, but this is very nice.”
“This is more than nice. This is whiskey that sits on your chest and slaps you around.”
Again that effervescent laugh.
“Sandy said you liked whiskey.”
“I thought I did, until I tried this,” I said having another swig.
“Let me top you off then.” She poured me another as she started her pitch, “so how much did Sandy tell you?”
“Not much.”
“He’s so secretive.”
“You know him a long time?”
“We’ve known him so long, you could call him family.”
“You said ‘we’,” I noticed aloud.
“Yes, Blackjack. I am part of an organization and WE have some opportunities.”
“Boy Scouts?”
She laughed and drained her drink, serving me and herself, more of the heavenly whiskey.
“We are far more nefarious,” she said through her laughter. “Though we have strict rules regarding that underage business.”
“Good,” I said, also laughing. “Because I was going to throw myself out of the moving car if you were associated with those freaks.”
She let the emotions cool a second and continued, “In truth, the WE is two people. My partner and I.”
“And who’s that?”
“That will come later. I want to assure you that I am at the highest level of management for this operation. I wanted to meet you in person, to see if you’re interested before we get into the details.”
I nodded, “fair enough.”
“Well, we are forming a team, with you as a core member. The team will have a series of initial tasks, quite menial at first, but necessary. Further tasks will increase in difficulty and-”
“For example,” I interrupted.
“Well, there are certain items secreted away in various places, vaults around the world. Separate, these items are useless, but together, and with the proper knowledge, they are...”
“Invaluable,” I finished for her.
Dr. Walsh nodded.
“Why do you need us to steal them? If you’re sophisticated enough to know what they are and what they can do, then why doesn’t he do it yourselves?”
She laughed. “You’re selling yourself out of a job, Blackjack. That’s poor salesmanship.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I can’t help wondering.”
“I know, forgive me,” she replied. “I am being too coy and your question is a valid one. The answer is simple; I am a scientist by profession and I haven’t the skills. My partner is indisposed of at the moment.”
>
“Jail?”
“Forgive me if I can’t say,” she poured me more of the whiskey. “That is the only caveat to this operation. As far as payment goes, we’re offering ten million dollars for each of the first four missions, then fifty million for the final stage. The overall time period covered should not exceed three weeks.”
“That’s not bad,” I said, wearing my worst poker face. This = made what I was doing look a joke, and would fund my operation for years.
“The money will be placed in an account of your choosing, which Sandy has already provided for us, at the end of each mission.”
I sat back, drained the glass and wondered how this would play out with my face on every magazine cover, a villain un-masked. No more anonymity, no more privacy. The ‘big time’ had its drawbacks.
She was looking at me, letting me make my decision.
“Ok,” I started. “It all sounds fine, but I have one condition. I need to know who your partner is.”
“Is that a deal-breaker?” she asked.
I nodded.
She paused a moment, and said, “What do you know of Dr. Retcon?”
* * *
Supers, Powers, Wonders, Megas, Ultras.
Everyone has a different name for us, but basically we’re enhanced humans. We share all the same characteristics as regular Homo sapiens, but we can fly, generate flames, or punch through walls. The powers are as varied as the individuals and there’s no rhyme or reason to what a person will develop.
The first appeared in the sixties, seven scientists who changed the world. As the story goes, the “Original Seven” (as they’re officially referred to), were a group of scientists doting away at a lab in an Ivy League school in the northeast, and accidentally opened a portal to another world. Depending on who you talk to, it was either a new planet, or a separate dimension, but whatever it was they fearlessly entered the portal only to find it closed behind them forever. This version of the story claims that they met a race of benevolent aliens (or gods?) that gave them the power to return, inadvertently changing them into super-beings.
I was amongst the third generation of supers, but how the rest of us came to be was all conjecture. Some theorized that the Original Seven radiated the same mutagenic properties that gave them their amazing powers, and this radiation changed normal humans in their proximity. Others thought these changes only occurred in intense exposure to the Original Seven during the embryonic stage, but nothing conclusive had ever been found. Indeed this theory was the one that mostly held, as the Original Seven were notorious in their desire for privacy and seclusion, and supers like me were a precious few. Another theory, which wasn’t as well supported, was that the location of the test itself might be the nexus of the changes that befell the generations that followed. It followed that most of the people in the second generation were from the vicinity of New Hampshire, specifically Hanover, where Dartmouth College was located. The final major theory, and the least supported, posited that the portal they used to travel (a wormhole according to the theory) was itself the conduit for the radiation that changed some of us.
But to look at the records, as many journalists had tried in the past, was to wade into a sea of redactions, Top Secret or higher clearances, and “no comments.” Most people wanted the past forgotten, and for the most part, the Original Seven had disappeared or retired, and were now long gone. One of them was dead for certain. Valiant was the most beloved of the Original Seven. Earth’s first and favorite hero, murdered by Dr. Retcon. His passing was a world-wide event, and like the Kennedy assassination, or the arrival of the first man on the Moon, everyone can recount where they were and what they were doing when they first heard Valiant had gone. Like Valiant, Global was a beloved hero, admired almost everyone. The most charismatic of the bunch, he chose sides in the seventies, and his fire elemental powers went to work for the Americans against the “Soviet Menace”. Global had retired in the early nineties, but he was still around. Another, Nostromo, was thought to be in self-imposed solitude on the dark side of the Moon, while Apostle had returned to his native Africa, and of late was been quite active in the dusty plains of Western Sudan. One of them, Ed Watters, never aspired to be super. He went home after the incident and tried to live a normal life. History virtually forgot him.
The last two of the Originals chose a different path. Instead of becoming heroes, Dr. Retcon and his beloved Lady Jade chose the path of villainy. Jade had been inactive since the Seventies, when she went on a tear robbing museums and selling art to the highest bidders. Dr. Retcon was the more dangerous of the two by far, and had threatened the world itself with destruction many times. A dangerous megalomaniac and sociopath, he was considered a menace to humankind until Global, Apostle and Nostromo combined to catch and put him away in Utopia prison.
* * *
I should have jumped out of the car right then and there.
After she told me we’d be working with Dr. Retcon, I simply sat back and looked out the window for the rest of the trip. She took my silence for acquiescence, but I knew I hadn’t signed any contract, nor agreed to a damned thing. This was a totally different monster now. No wonder it paid so much.
“Big time,” Sandy had said, and he wasn’t kidding.
This wasn’t robbing banks or knocking off a jewelry exchange. Retcon had traded blows with the best superheroes and won. The stories of his exploits were legendary, like when he’d taken the Soviet’s entire nuclear stockpile hostage, or when he’d stolen the Moon.
Working for Retcon meant the big time, for sure, and big money, but it also meant big time heroes coming for me. No more Atmosphero and the regional ilk. Now it meant fighting The Sentinels, Paladin, Lord Mighty, Epic and the Revolution, guys that could paste me without thinking about it.
Actually, that was the trick, it meant going from being a petty criminal with a colorful costume to becoming a true villain.
The more I thought of it, the more a wide smile played on my face, a smile I could do nothing to wipe off.
We turned off into an abandoned office park, with an odd-looking building standing in the middle of where a fountain used to stand before the main structure. It looked out of place with the remaining structures, as if it had been placed atop the fountain by a giant who was bored of playing with his toy. The building looked like a slice of many contrasting structures, pancaked atop of each other, each with a different artistic style. One floor was baroque, another art-deco, and another modernistic. It also looked to have a state of the art helipad on the roof, and a lower lobby entrance much like that of a lavish 1940’s hotel.
We parked in front and she swung the door open.
“Time to decide...” Dr. Walsh said, letting the question linger in the air.
I couldn’t help myself. “I’m in,” I said.
She led me out of the car and through the turn style entrance to the strange building. The bottom floor even had a desk lobby for arriving guests, thought it was empty at the moment.
“Interesting place,” I said.
Walsh flashed me a sinister smile, “This place is full of surprises.”
Chapter 4
We rode up the elevator, and it struck me that it didn’t seem to be rising directly but rather taking various turns and even moving laterally. When the doors slid open, we arrived at a study where Dr. Walsh served me another drink. She asked me to wait while the rest of the team was assembled and slipped out of a side door.
It was dark, with only a sliver of light filtering in through some blinds, but I could tell that this was a repository of some of Dr. Retcon’s finest treasures and trophies, including a bonafide Egyptian mummy casket, and rare paintings ranging from Raphael’s Deposition of Christ to Goya’s The Third of May 1808 to Renoir’s Dance at Le Moulin de la Galette to Willem de Kooning’s Woman III. The room’s decor was as diverse as the choice of paintings, covering different time periods and decoration styles.
One of the walls was dominated by an exquisite mahoga
ny bookshelf. Strewn on the shelves were books of all eras, wrapped scrolls and parchments, random statuettes and bits of electrical experiments. I was drawn to one of the shelves, with a series of books that had the name of Tesla on their spine.
I took one, a delicate old leather thing, with the title “notes” handwritten on the cover. It felt like it might fall apart in my hand, so I was gentle with it. I slowly turned to the front page, revealing it to be a generic notebook, signed on the first page by Nikola Tesla himself and dated 1931.
It was dedicated, with darker text, as if it had been gifted many years after the original writing. The words read:
“Alec,
I’ve created a device to end all wars, and exactly as you predicted, they are not interested in it. They have made it perfectly clear by their disingenuous enthusiasm. I suppose it is safer for them to keep the old scientist inside the house, while destroying it with his mad experiments, than outside in the wild, letting God-knows whom learn from the madness.
I know this will be in good hands
Ever your friend,
Nikola Tesla”
Flipping through it, I saw the text written in almost unintelligible longhand and designs apparently illustrated by Tesla himself. One that drew my attention was a drawing of a small city with a series of ‘Tesla’ towers surrounding it, emitting a beam that formed a force shield over the city. A group of simply drawn bombers soared above the city, uselessly dropping bombs into the shield. I flipped to the back and saw the writing on the last page ended mid-sentence.
Before I knew it, this strange fellow stood beside me. I thought he was an employee of Dr. Retcon’s, but he stood there, sizing me up with a stupid grin on his face. This guy was about average height, but still a head shorter than me. He had an athletic build, agile and lean, and he wore a blue baseball cap that read “The Shit” and a faded red t-shirt with the letters “NSFW”.
“Yo, what’s up?” the skinny guy said.
He was right in my face, confrontational, but with a wide smile on his face.
