The Prospects (Book 2): Nothing Poorer Than Gods (24 page)

“I believe that you believe that.”

“Don’t patronize me. I’m not a cackling megalomaniac.”

“You’re bleeding. Your spyware network is in pieces. Your army is destroyed. Whatever you tried to do, you failed.”

The Handler put a bloody hand on his forehead. “Artists are never understood in their lifetimes.”

“Come with me.”

“Why? To be a sacrifice to the future?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Of course you don’t. Let me share my vision.”

The Handler pressed a few buttons. The monitors cut away from the television and closed-circuit feeds. They showed images of cold angular metropolises where men flew over streets so clean they looked abandoned, of barren landscapes interrupted by the ruins of famous landmarks, of robots standing among piles of bones, of barb-wire encircled camps where humans shuffled with their heads down below the gaze of mutant guards, of broken buildings covered with graffiti and bullet holes where deformed people with missing limbs scurried from shadow to shadow, and of ravaged skyscrapers covered by foliage and fungus.

“I did what I was meant to do,” said the Handler. “I collected information from thousands of sources to predict the future. Make no mistake, you normal humans are at war with metahumans, and you didn’t start it. They’ve taken control of your freedom under the guise of protection. They use your cities as their battlefields. They set themselves above you to be worshipped as gods and won’t be held accountable for the innocent casualties from their skirmishes.

“Every war ends. What will happen when the victors emerge? Will Americans live under the eternal control of self-appointed heroes who brutally enforce order? Or timeless chaos, where the villains dominate us? Or endless anarchy, where there's nothing left to defend? Or a future where mutants outnumber normal humans and eradicate them to force evolution? Or will an artificial intelligence find a way to kill every living …”

“Enough.”

“I tried to make the villains and heroes kill each other. The winner would be the common people. I don’t care about good or evil, I care about humanity. I truly want to help everyone, not only us Americans. But you near-sighted fools can’t understand …”

“I said enough. Do you have any ideas how many doomsday projections we've already lived through?  There were so many times we came to the brink of nuclear annihilation through mistakes we can't blame the metahumans for. We always found a way to survive.”

“I've done the math enough to know the danger of a second-guessing. Technology is advancing faster than we can comprehend it. The rate of mutation is progressing far too rapidly for our species to survive. We stand at Armageddon. I'm trying to save the world from its self-proclaimed defenders.”

“And you're doing that by proclaiming yourself as its defender.” 

“Again, you don't get it.”

“You've become an insult to everything we stand for.”

The Handler spread his arms in a cross pose in front of the images of bleak futures. The backlighting hid his perpetually anonymous face. “Do what you will with me. Turn me over to the superheroes, let the villains tear me apart, let the state I dedicated my life to save execute me.”

Knapp drew his pistol. “The CIA handles its own problems.”

The Handler lowered his arms. “Of course it does.”

“We sealed off the exits. Let’s get this over with.”

The Handler walked past Knapp to the room with the cloning tanks. He swept his hands towards the undeveloped clones in glass cylinders. “Do you imagine I should hate life, flee to the desert, because not every flowering dream bloomed? Here I sit, forming humans in my image, a people to be like me, to suffer, to weep, to enjoy and to delight themselves, and to not attend to you – as I.”

“Did you write that yourself?”

“It’s the end to Goethe’s poem, Prometheus. The story of a titan who fought the gods for the good of man and was punished for it.”

“I'm not a fan of German poetry. Anything else you want to say?”

“I know what futures await the living. I don’t pity the dead.”

Knapp put his pistol away. “Come back to Langley for a full debriefing.”

“What?”

“There may come a time when we are at war with the superheroes or facing a villain they can't defeat or we're invaded by another country's metahuman army. Your time will come again.”

The Handler wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve. “Perhaps I underestimated you.”

Knapp pulled out his smartphone.  “Of course, there’s no reason to let the MAB know about our arrangement.” He pressed the call button.

Alex answered his smartphone before the first ring ended. “Agent O’Farrell.”

Alex nodded as he watched the television in Noah’s half of the room. “Good work, Mister Knapp. Seal everything up and post a guard. I’ll have Doctor Von Dyme inspect the facility in the morning.” He hung up. “It’s over.”

Noah asked, “Is the Handler under arrest?”

“The CIA asked to handle him their way.  In return, we get the cloning facility.”

“That’s your idea of justice?”

“Lady Amazing is dying. We need the cloning facility to save her.”

“He massacred my people.”

“We couldn't have apprehended the Handler. We don’t even know what he looks like.”

Alex’s smartphone buzzed. He checked the text message: PW & KO IN ER.

“Pinwheel and Knockout Rose are safe.” He flipped through his smartphone’s contacts until he found Gale Force’s number.

Bosillos pulled a pack of Marlboro Lights from his vest.

“Seriously?” asked Gale Force.

“You gonna give me a hard time about this?”

“Not if you give me one.”

Bosillos chuckled. He put a cigarette between her lips and lit it with an electric lighter embedded in his cybernetic hand.

P!nk’s “Raise Your Glass” echoed through the elevator shaft.

Bosillos said, “Where’s that coming from?”

“It’s my phone.” Gale Force reached her for her belt but winced before touching it. “My shoulder hurts like hell.”

“Probably dislocated. That guy with the whips yanked it hard.”

Gale Force took a deep drag. “Fuck it.”

“She didn’t pick up.” Alex flipped through his contacts and called Emily.

Her phone rang until it went into voicemail.

“Oh, no.” Alex flipped through his contacts. “Maybe Arbalest made it there.” The number wasn’t in service. “Damn it! Why can’t he keep a phone?”

Alex’s phone rang. The screen showed Emily’s picture. He pressed the button to accept and said, “Are you okay?”

“We’re fine.”

“How’s Calvin?”

Calvin said, “Daddy.”

“When you didn’t pick up … never been more scared.”

“I left it in the bedroom. I had to go back to get it.”

“How’s Jenny?”

“Gary and that guy with the robot eye are talking to her. She held off an army of monsters, but she’s hurt. Alex, please come back.”

“I’ll be there soon. Thank God you’re alive. I love you.” He said the last three words purely by habit. He forgot how angry he was at her for cheating on him until after he hung up.

Alex put his arm around Trista’s shoulder. “We did it.”

Trista’s mouth was agape.

“We saved millions of people, including our friends. What’s wrong?”

Trista pointed at the laptop’s screen as it cycled through the Handler’s pictures of dystopias. “These are our futures.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is what the Handler fought to prevent. He calculated the damage from superhero fights and the increasing rate of mutations. More powers means more divisions, more misunderstandings, more battles, more casualties. There’s no way it will end well.”

“How was attacking major cities supposed to prevent that?”

“He wanted to prove it was possible to stop superpowered violence and for people to reclaim their destiny. He truly wanted to save humanity from us.”

“I get it. We’re the heroes, but we’re not the good guys.”

Steve’s hands tingled beneath the thick bandages. He wondered how they would look when they healed.

The torn remains of his rainbow-patterned Pinwheel costume were on the chair beside him. He hated its gaudy colors. He hated the memories it brought back. He hated the cheesy lines he had to recite on-camera, knowing that no matter how good he was Jackie would tear him apart with a thousand "tips."  He especially hated that wearing it made him someone else's idea of what he should be.

A winsome brunette in ill-fitting donated clothes entered the waiting room. “Hi.”

Steve looked her over. “Didn’t I save your life last night?”

“That’s me. Marigold. Or Hannah.”

“I almost didn’t recognize you dressed.”

She blushed. “The manager made me do it. He said girls were like me were a dime-a-dozen, and if I didn’t do it he’d get someone who would. It was the only paying gig I got since moving to the city, so …”

“I’d say what that man is, but I don’t like using harsh language in front of a lady.”

She laughed. “I appreciate that. How are your hands?”

“The docs did all they could. I’m waiting for Stormhead to take me and a couple of others back to Griffin Tower.”

“Oh. Is there anything I could do for you until then?”

“Actually, there is.” He pointed to the remote control with his bandaged hand. “Could you turn on the TV? I can’t move my fingers real well.”

She took the remote control and pressed the power button. A reporter said, “It seems Wayne Penobscot can’t be the Midnight Rider. This footage shows the masked vigilante carrying the billionaire-philanthropist from the Langham Hotel.”

“Good for Boston,” said Steve. “Let’s find something local.”

She changed the channel.

The morning news showed footage from New York’s more spectacular battles. One shot showed him making flashes behind a line of charging villains.

“You were amazing out there,” said Hannah. “We were surrounded and you fought on after Stardancer ran away.”

“Well, she … wait, is that her?”

On the television, Stardancer talked into a reporter’s microphone. “Scared? No, not at all. I mean, we superheroes face danger every day. After my old sidekick Pinwheel ran away, I knew what I had to do.”

“Oh, no way,” said Hannah.

“Wish I could say this was out of character for her. She’ll take any excuse to tear me down.”

Stardancer said, “I don’t do this for the glory, I do it for …” a thrown tomato burst on her face.

The camera swung to the side. Ruby waddled with her claws raised. “You liar, Pinwheel saved your chicken-ass!” Stardancer ran away as Ruby grabbed the microphone. “He’s a real superhero. And another thing, he’s not gay.”

“Could you change the channel?” asked Steve. “I’ve been embarrassed enough for one day, and it’s not even noon.”

Hannah pressed the mute button and sat next to him. “You know, the MAB agents also said you’re a great guy. And that you’re not gay.”

“And I thought those guys were jerks.”

“I always thought you were the funniest and nicest of the Young Sentinels. I don’t know how you put up with Stardancer. She’s such a … well, I don’t like to use harsh language in front of a gentleman.”

“The worst part is, I saved her life but I couldn’t save Pete’s.”

“You mean Rock Jock? I didn't see him last night."

"He died. I'll really miss him."

"But he always bullied you.”

“Only when in character. We were actually best friends.”

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

“We were attacked by squid-men. Long story. I couldn’t pull him in the boat, he was too heavy. Agent O’Farrell says we’ll have a memorial service for him.”

Hannah put her hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yeah, I do.”

A nurse pushed Jenny’s wheelchair past the waiting room door. Her right leg was in a fresh cast and her left arm was in a sling.

Another nurse pushed another wheelchair came down another hallway. This one had Deon in it.

When the hallways intersected, Deon waved to Jenny. “Hey, girl, sorry I didn't call last night.” He pointed to the bandage on his head. “I had a lot on my mind.”

Jenny pointed to her sling. “I turned off my phone anyway. What happened to you?”

“Damndest thing. I ran down Arbalest. He pulled over on the shoulder of the road. I told him turn the Guardians back. Then an SUV clipped me with its rearview mirror. I should’ve worn that stupid shiny Goldstreak suit. Maybe then the driver would’ve seen me.”

“Are you okay?”

“Mild concussion, but it knocked me senseless. Arbalest put me on the back of his bike and brought me straight here. What happened to your arm?”

“Got yanked out of joint by an asshole with metal whips.”

“I heard that guy is in another wing of this hospital. Don’t worry, there are a dozen armored MAB agents outside his door.”

“I saw the medics take him out of Griffin Tower. Flayer got mauled by Lou.”

“That guy won’t like you much when he recovers.”

“The first entry in my rogue’s gallery.”

Stormhead approached them. “That is a big moment in any superhero’s career. I’d like to personally thank you for defending Griffin Tower.”

“I did what anyone would do.”

“I won’t lie. We had our doubts about your place among us. We don't anymore.”

“Well, Alex told me to keep a stiff upper-lip during hazing.”

“Hazing? Sorry, I don’t know this word. My English isn’t perfect. Deon, I am also impressed by how you defeated Puca.”

“What?” asked Jenny.

“Yeah, I …” Deon looked away. “I saw her planting bombs, so I switched one that was about to blow up with one she was about to plant.”

“A few citizens took pictures of the explosions. One caught you taking her bomb. I can find it on my phone."

"I don't need to see that. Damn, I killed her. It’s still sinking in."

"She was a terrorist. She was responsible for over forty deaths, hundreds of injuries, and millions of dollars. Your quick thinking means there will be no more.”

“Still, I understand how Pete felt when he killed Pig-Girl. It’s like, I couldn’t think of a way to bring her in alive.”

“It is a hard thing to take a life, especially for a life-saver like you. We can talk about it later.”

The nurses pushed the wheelchairs to the front doors as Stormhead walked to the waiting room.

Jenny said, “Deon, why didn’t you tell me you took out a supervillainess?”

“I’m not proud of it, but I had to stop her.”

“And you did. You officially lived down that time you peed your pants.”

“It’s weird. When we were Prospects, you were a quitter and I was a coward. Since then, you stuck it out and I got brave. We started as zeroes but became heroes.”

“Does this mean you’re willing to be more than a reservist for the New York Guardians?”

“Nah, I’m serious about med school. A month ago I didn’t have what it took to be a doctor. Agent O’Farrell showed me I had the skills, Griffin Industries game me the scholarship, and some running through Vijay’s brain gave me the confidence. For the next eight years it’s studying, then superheroing.”

“How will you find time for a girlfriend?”

“Guess I’ll have to date a superheroine. And you owe me a date.”

Jenny smiled. “I certainly do. But I’m not going out with my leg in a cast and my arm in a sling.”

Deon got into the car. “Got that taken care of. My mom’s going to stop by Griffin Tower with my Wesley Snipes DVD collection. We’ll watch
Art of War, Passenger 57, Blade
one and two ...”

Jenny made a sour face as two MAB agents helped her and Pinwheel into the backseat of a waiting car.

“Yo, I’m joking.” Deon followed her into the car. “After what we’ve been through, we need comedy. We’ll start with
Major League
.”

Several floors up, Trista returned to Vijay’s room with a small bag in her hands.

The machines attached to Vijay showed stable vital signs. His irises didn't move beneath their glazed cover. The respirator made his chest rise and fall in an unnatural rhythm.

Trista sat on the bed. She took a framed picture of an Indian woman, a small silver statue of Shiva, and a fresh samosa out of the bag.

She tilted the mask a bit to allow the scent of the samosa under the respirator mask before taking a bite of it. The spices mixed with fresh dough in her mouth, a sensation she savored while trying to remember mundane mornings with her family.

With these memories in her mind, she lifted his eyelids and stared into his glassy pupils. Slowly she established a new connection with Vijay’s mind.

His mindscape was a softer and warmer place than before. There were only suggestions of dimensions, with width and depths changing with smooth fluidity. 

Trista flowed formlessly to a flat space the exact same color as the green plastic table in Vijay’s boyhood home. Clouds against the empty sky were shaped like stacks of plates on kitchen shelves. Above them were rectangles the color of cereal boxes. This was what Vijay associated the scent of samosas with - lazy mornings where he was happy without knowing it. Since Trista invoked her sense of familiarity and tasted something similar, she blended in with the feelings.

In the midst of the lucidity Trista had no trouble finding the discordance. At the corner of the table a small storm of random thoughts tried to fill the empty space. Shimmering strands reached on both sides to find out where the samosas came from but couldn’t make a connection that held itself together. Frustration emanated from the inability to fill this lacuna, this hole in the narrative, this missing thing that couldn’t be remembered.

A skinny boy sat on a pile of jagged chunks of tarnished silver at the edge of this chaotic nothingness.

“Hello, Vijay.”

The boy’s face was bruised. His shrank and became blurry when she approached. Trista felt herself shift from the scared girl in a nullifier to an angel in white to the fishnet-clad supervillainess, first sexually exaggerated and then defined by a cruel smirk, in the speed of dreams.

“No, no more.” He faded into the background. “Don’t take anything else. I know I can’t stop you, but please don’t.”

The mindscape shifted. The rounded corners of the table became jagged cliffs, the calm green plastic became dark and tinged with red, and the warm winds of childhood memories became stinging sheets of painful shards.

“I’m not here to take.” Trista focused her consciousness. She took control of her image and became a girl in oversized blue sweatshirt and leggings.

Trista broke the connection to look at the picture. She set the Indian woman’s image in her mind and reconnected with Vijay to insert the image into the lacuna. The presence of warmth tempered by a few sharp points of discipline fit perfectly. The mindscape's painful edge melted to softer forms.

“I visited your family this morning,” said Trista. “Your father is still mad that you stole his credit cards. But Palak, your little brother, he misses you. He gave me a picture of your mother. You kept it over your old computer. I put it next to your hospital bed.”

“I …” Vijay reached out to the presence of his mother as it blurred into the softening background, marred by small black circles. “It’s not coming together. There’s something missing. I don’t know what it is, but I need it.”

“I’ll give back everything I took.” Trista exhaled. The association webs of hacking intertwined with the memories of Vijay’s mother. The black holes vanished. Everything was as vague as before, but somehow it became stronger and more defined to Trista.

The mindscape softened before turning sharp again. “Why are you doing this? So you can tear them from me again?”

“I’m trying to make things right.” Trista shifted to the image of Mind Dame. “I allowed this side of myself to take over when you resisted me. I want to believe this isn’t really me, that the Idea Man made me an extension of his will, but now I’m starting to wonder if this is who I really am and the way I act as Trista is the forced identity. I truly don’t know anymore.”

Vijay picked up a broken piece of silver. “This was what I used to me, my idealized self. But you destroyed it.”

“I know what it’s like to have someone take what they want by force. It destroys your idea of who you are and what you believe you can be. It makes you feel like you're no longer a part of the world.”

“It wasn’t just you who hurt me. Everyone always thinks they're better than I am."

"Your brother doesn't."

"In school I got beat up by the jocks and chewed out by teachers. My hacker mentors didn’t take me seriously until I wiped their hard drives. I thought I could still beat the villains at their own game. I thought I could outthink them. I couldn’t. They manipulated me and threw me away.”