by Bryan Davis
I closed the message. No time to barter with Jack. I plugged my hologram projector’s interface cable into the computer and copied the digitized image of Damocles from the thumb drive to the projector’s memory. It took longer than usual. Probably a high-resolution image.
When it finished, I dialed up the image, pointed the projector at the bedroom floor, and pressed the button. In the usual flash of light, Damocles appeared, clear and life-size, once again wearing his cowl mask and gadgets belt. Yet, he was motionless, standing at attention as if waiting for a command.
A voice came from behind me. “Does your projector have an AI processor?”
I looked back at the computer. On the screen, Damocles stood next to the lab table, a magazine spread out over his hands. He flipped a page as if casually browsing ads for mad-scientist gear.
I shook my head. “It’s just a projector, like a dumb terminal.”
“Then you’ll have to use mine.” Damocles looked up from the magazine and touched his waist. “You’ll find it on my belt.”
I grabbed the belt from the floor and searched the various pouches until I came across a gun-like device that resembled my own projector. I pulled it out and squeezed the trigger. It buzzed, and a flicker of light emanated. Then it sizzled and grew scalding hot. I dropped it and blew on my hand. “I think the net fried it.”
Damocles nodded. “The Internet has many viruses that can cause computers to malfunction.”
“Not the Internet. The electrified net that fell on you. It cooked the projector.”
“Ah. Then try mine. You’ll find it on my belt.”
“Stupid, buggy program.” I leaned closer and spoke slowly. “Listen. The hologram projector that you had on your belt is malfunctioning. I don’t have access to a projector that has artificial intelligence capabilities.”
“Then you will have to get a new one.” Damocles flipped through the magazine and stopped on a page. He ripped it out and threw it at the screen. An Internet ad from Electronics Depot appeared showing a handheld computer that included a 360-degree camera and life-tech speakers, the exact device I had dreamed of getting for weeks.
“I saw your email,” Damocles said. “So I found this ad. Make Jack an offer for it. Then you’ll be able to animate the hologram.”
“I don’t have anything worth that much. I just trade for parts and build stuff myself.”
Damocles let out an exaggerated sigh. “Then Mephisto will find out that I’m dead. He’ll unleash a storm of crime on Nirvana that will destroy homes, families, and … and whatever else gets destroyed in crime storms.”
“Don’t try the guilt trip. I’m not gullible. I just don’t have anything —”
“You have the VR helmet. Offer it to Jack, and he can atomic blast virtual-reality glowbots forever.”
“But it took me two months to build that helmet. It’s my main way of getting the parts I need.”
“Suit yourself.” Damocles rolled the magazine into a tube. “I’m dead, so Mephisto’s cruel oppressions won’t affect me, but you have your injured sister to consider.”
“I told you to stop the guilt trip.”
“It’s in my programming. If guilt doesn’t work, shame is next. I plan to talk about how it seems that I chose the wrong person, that I died thinking a courageous young man would step into my shoes and —”
“All right. All right. I’ll make the offer.” I glared at the screen. Damocles said to ignore the AI unit’s attitude. The real Damocles would never be so manipulative. Anyone who remembered the details of my art entry had to have a heart of gold.
I stepped into my closet and grabbed the VR helmet from the floor. While I was in there, the black-widow switch caught my attention. The generator had been recharging for several hours. Maybe it would work on me this time. I flipped the switch up. The light flashed on. Again, tingles crawled along my skin.
When I turned the light off, I stepped out of the closet and flexed my biceps — defined and wiry, but no bigger. Time would tell if it worked.
I got dressed in jeans and a Nirvana University T-shirt, the one with the boxing pig on the front. Jack was a big fan of the Fighting Warthogs. He always worked on Saturday, and since they opened at nine, I had plenty of time to get there.
After using the bathroom, I hurried to our eat-in kitchen. Sam sat at the three-person table on the near side, shoveling a big spoon from a huge salad bowl. “There’s enough cereal for you,” she said as soggy Cheerios spilled from her mouth, “but we’re out of milk.”
“I’m not surprised. The way you’re eating, I think we’ll need to rent a cow.”
She swallowed her mouthful and stared at me. “Why that shirt? You going somewhere?”
“Yeah. To Electronics Depot.” I looked at her arms. They were slightly smaller than before, but maybe because she was relaxing them. Still, I needed to keep an eye on her. Since Milligan seemed to be a night crawler, Mom would probably be safe this time of day. “Want to come with me?”
“Sure.” She stood on her chair and leaped to the floor, making her cape billow.
I touched the purple towel’s frayed edge. “You have to leave your cape here.”
“But I’m a superhero now.”
I firmed my lips. The best way to convince her might be to play along. “Listen, Sam. Every superhero has a secret identity. If you run around town with a cape, everyone will know that Samantha Hertz and …” I searched my memory. That crazy name was in my brain somewhere. “Princess Queenie Unicorn Iris Ponyrider Buttercup Olive Lover Rosey Is Posey are one and the same person.”
“You got it wrong.”
“The superhero name? No, I’m sure you said —”
She shook her head hard. “You got it wrong. I’m Princess Queenie Unicorn Alice Rosey Posey Buttercup Iris Tassels.”
“Princess Quarpbit?”
“Stop it!” She crossed her arms tightly. “Say it right, or I’m wearing the cape to Electronics Depot.”
“Okay, okay.” I looked her in the eye. “You’re Princess Queenie Unicorn Alice Rosey Posey Buttercup Iris Tassels.”
“Perfect.” She detached the cape and hung it over her chair. “Are we taking the bus?”
“I wish. We have to walk. But maybe I can squeeze some money out of Jack so we can pay for a ride home.”
“And a snow cone?”
“We’ll see.” I combed my fingers through her unruly locks. “If you brush your hair and put a pink ribbon in it, maybe that’ll help our cause.”
“Goody.” She skipped to the bathroom and disappeared inside.
I grabbed pen and paper and wrote a quick note for Mom. Since she worked till eleven last night, she would probably sleep past seven. No use waking her up.
With note in hand, I tiptoed to her bedroom. The door was ajar. I peeked through the gap. She lay asleep, curled on her side. Again on tiptoes, I sneaked in and laid the note on her night table. A pill bottle sat next to the lamp. Unusual. I hadn’t heard her say anything about being sick.
I leaned close and read the bottle’s label — Nexium. It sounded familiar. Something for ulcers, maybe? I could look it up later.
As quiet as a mute mouse wearing sneakers, I hurried out of the room and snatched my backpack from a hook on the wall near the main door. While walking around the apartment, I collected three snack bars, the VR helmet, Damocles’s flash drive, and my hologram projector and stuffed them into the backpack. Then I shot off an email to Jack telling him I’d be at the store at 8:30, a half hour before it opens.
Sam joined me, her face washed and her hair neatly fastened in place with a pink hairband. Wearing a black skirt with matching leggings and a purple top, she oozed little-sister cuteness. No one would ever guess she had super powers. We scampered out of our apartment and down the stairs. That route was faster than our slow-as-a-crippled-turtle elevator.
> Once on the sidewalk in front of our building, Sam slid her hand into mine. “My secret identity is Samantha Coolio, a little girl who’s scared of the city streets. She is blind in one eye and has throat cancer. Her parents were killed by a swarm of rabid weasels, so now she’s an orphan.”
“An orphan, huh? Good idea.”
Her vigorous nod shook her ponytails. “So you’ll have to hold my hand, but if a bad guy jumps us, I’ll transform into Princess Queenie Unicorn Esmeralda Sabrina Taryn Rosey Olive Buttercup Iris Tassels.”
“So now you changed it to Princess Questrobit.”
“My superhero name hasn’t changed. You just keep forgetting.”
“Whatever.”
“Morning to ya, Eddie. Samantha.”
I pivoted. Barney the maintenance man stood halfway up a ladder that leaned against our building. Although it was still morning, sweat glistened on his sunburned face. “What’s up, Barney?”
“Seems that I am.” Wearing a carpenter’s utility belt over dirty jeans and gray t-shirt, he tromped down the rungs. “Got two windows to fix. Yours is next, but I can get to it from the fire escape.”
I angled my body to see the side of the building, but the window was out of sight. “Who reported it?”
He shrugged. “Your mom, I guess. I just got a call from the landlord to fix it.”
“Well, I think my mom’s sleeping, so —”
“I’ll be as quiet as a woodpecker on a downspout.” He pulled a hammer from his belt. “Sorry, but it’s part of the job.”
“Are you sticking around all morning?”
“Yep. After the window, I have to set rat traps. The beasts are multiplying faster than a calculator. Caught two of them picking out baby gifts from a ratalogue.” He snorted a laugh. “Get it? A ratalogue instead of a catalogue?”
“Yeah, I get it.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Hey, can you kind of keep an eye out for my mom while we’re gone? I think I saw a prowler near our window last night.”
“You can count on me.” Barney pretended to bop someone with his hammer. “Any strangers will have to get past me first. I have a black belt in six different blunt tools.”
“Thanks. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
As Sam and I walked hand in hand, I glanced at her arms. Her muscles were still much bigger than normal, bulging under her sleeves.
I looked at my own arms. Normal. No sign of molecular transformation. It seemed that my generator had worked only once and then died. Maybe I could fix it if I could find the right parts, but giving up my VR helmet made that possibility look pretty dim.
We took the long way to bypass what locals called the Dead Zone — a haunt for drug dealers, black-market traders, and undead beings, though I wasn’t ready to believe in the ghosts and zombies people talked about. Adults were probably just trying to keep kids away from the crime-infested area.
When we arrived at the store, I pressed my nose against the glass door and peered inside. Jack was playing a video game on a giant-screen TV. A clock on the wall said half past eight. I checked my wristwatch — 8:29 a.m. Close enough.
Still holding Samantha’s hand, I tapped on the glass with a knuckle. Jack held up a finger, his stare riveted on the TV. After a few seconds, his shoulders slumped, and he laid the game controller on a chair.
As he sauntered toward the door, his gray ponytail swayed behind him. He once told me he came from the hippie generation and couldn’t stand the thought of cutting his hair or shaving his beard, though he kept the beard fairly short and neat.
He unlocked the door and swung it open, grinning. “Well, well, well. It’s Megahertz and his little sister Kilohertz.”
“Yeah. Good one.” I pushed past him, guiding Sam at my side. “I haven’t heard that one … today.”
Jack touched my backpack. “Did you bring it?”
“Yep.” I slid the straps down and unzipped the pack.
As I lifted the helmet out, Jack licked his lips. “I’ll get the solar cells.”
Just as he turned, I grabbed his arm. “Wait. I want to make a different deal.”
“A different deal?” Jack rubbed his thin hands together. “What else you got?”
“First, I don’t want the solar cells. I want that handheld computer you have on sale.”
“The Z-ninety? Why? It’s old technology. We’re just draining the inventory to get some cash for the new stuff.”
I hid a smile. Jack fancied himself a master negotiator, but he was really as clever as a dung beetle. He had already given me the upper hand. “Since it’s not really worth much, then you’ll have to throw in a power cord and a master interface plug so I can connect my hologram projector.”
“Well, it still sells for a couple hundred bucks, and the adapter is fifteen, but you won’t need the power cord if you don’t mind using regular batteries when the rechargeables go dead. The unit takes both kinds.”
“I like rechargeables. How many helmet hours is it all worth?”
“Way too many. You can’t trade hours for that much dough.”
“How about if I trade the helmet itself?”
Jack’s mouth dropped open. His tongue nearly hung out as he splurted, “Sold.”
He reached for the helmet, but I pulled it back. “Plus cash. I know this helmet’s worth more than two hundred. It’s one of a kind. Way more advanced than anything on the market. You know that.”
“Yeah, yeah, but you’re here begging for a trade, so I get to set the value.” Jack looked upward for a moment, then at the helmet. “I’ll add fifty bucks.”
“Fifty? You gotta be kidding. I could get five hundred in the Dead Zone.”
He waved a hand. “Then go to the Dead Zone. If you come out alive with the five hundred, then I’ll personally pat you on the back. More than likely I’ll be coming to your funeral instead.”
I looked past Jack at an open door to an office. His boss sat at a desk shuffling through a stack of papers. I extended the helmet to Jack. “Tell you what. You show this to your boss, and I’ll accept whatever he says it’s worth. Deal?”
“Deal.” He grabbed the helmet and tucked it under his arm. “No backing out.”
“It goes both ways. You can’t back out either.”
“Of course. I’m no cheat.” He marched to the office and closed the door.
I whispered to Sam, “Tell me what they say.”
She locked her stare on the door. “Jack asked his boss how his wife is doing. … She’s fine. Her arthritis is acting up, though. … Jack is talking about your helmet. He says they can easily get three thousand bucks for it from a research guy he knows. … His boss says great. They’ll buy it. … Throw the kid a bone and offer two hundred plus the other stuff he wants. That should make him happy.”
The door opened. Jack walked out with a wad of cash clutched in his fist. The helmet sat on the boss’s desk. With a wide grin, Jack counted out two hundred in twenties into my hand. “I’ll get the computer and cables.”
“But you and your boss agreed that it’s worth three thousand, not two hundred.”
He blinked. “What? How could you possibly —”
“And when you go back for the rest of the money, please tell your boss that I’m sorry about his wife’s arthritis. I hear it can be very painful.”
Jack’s face reddened. “Then you must’ve heard every word.”
“I guess since you’re no cheat, you’ll get the rest of the money.”
He whipped around, hurried back to the office, and closed the door.
Sam was already craning her neck to listen. Smart girl, as always.
“I just hear scratching noises.”
I nodded. “They’re probably writing messages.”
Soon, the boss stormed out, stopped in front of us, and stared at Sam. Her smile wilted unde
r his glare. Then he shifted his bloodshot eyes toward me. Wearing a black toupee that looked like a plastic cap sprouting monkey hair, he blurted, “I’ve got twelve fifty in the safe. With the computer, that adds up to fourteen fifty. Take it or leave it.”
His breath smelled like coffee and cigar smoke. I hid a swallow and tried to keep from squeaking. “I’ll take it.”
He cursed under his breath. “I’ll tell Jack to get your stuff.”
Within five minutes, Sam and I walked out of the store with the computer, the cables, and twelve hundred fifty dollars in cash.
Sam’s smile stretched wide enough to break her face. “We could get a bunch of snow cones with that much money.”
I stuffed the bills into my pocket. “We’ll get snow cones, but a lot of this money is going to pay for our rent. That’s more important.”
After buying snow cones — strawberry for me and blue raspberry for Sam — we rode the bus home. When we arrived at our corner, Sam slurped the last bits of ice and dripped blue liquid down her chin. Then we walked toward our building, this time skipping the hand holding. Her sticky fingers might glue us together for good.
Along the way, I compared our arms once more. Hers were still bulky. Mine? Skinny as ropes.
I stopped at a first-floor apartment where our landlord lived — Mrs. Abercrombie, a blue-haired old spinster. And no wonder she never married. She spat tobacco juice into a plastic cup every few seconds, had teeth as brown as dog droppings, and smelled like an outhouse.
She opened the door a crack and peeked out. “Whaddaya want?” she asked with a growl.
“To pay our rent.” I pulled some money from my pocket and showed it to her.
“Well, it’s about time.” She opened the door fully. Wearing a short white bathrobe that exposed most of her thin, hairy legs, she extended a hand.
I gave her our late rent, part of the next payment, and added an extra twenty as an apology.
“Where did you get all this cash?” she asked, one painted eyebrow lifting as she counted it. “Your mother’s been begging for more time like a pathetic little lapdog.”
