The Tower (4 page)

“Yeah, I guess so.” How could Quinn have known? He couldn't have but he'd (sort of) written about these guys anyway. What was the connection? Was there any to begin with?

“How many Earths are there?” I asked, feeling a bit uneasy. If what Avenger said was true, then everything I'd presupposed about this world, in fact, all the worlds in the various comic book universes, was wrong, or at the very least, misguided.

He eyed me closely and said, “We've discovered over forty dimensions and forty Earths in the past couple of years; there may be more. We're not entirely sure. We're still going over the data and we're just as sure that others who may be similar to us in other dimensions are gathering the same kind of information and perhaps know even more than we do.”

He paused and took a drink from his water glass. Deanna offered me some and I drank up. The water tasted metallic and heavy, but it was cold and made me feel a lot better. Avenger put his glass down and continued.

“As for the super-powered people you mentioned, we've never encountered them. It's possible they exist, but not here. As I said, we've only catalogued a relative few of those other dimensions. In one of those other universes, other versions of us or them may inhabit that particular Earth. We aren't certain, but it is a possibility.” He paused for a second, took a sip from his water glass and then refilled it as did the other members there.

I had another thought. “If they exist, or if others sort of like you exist in other universes, does that mean I'd also have a double?”

“Yes. It's possible your counterpart lives here,” Avenger answered. “He may be living in Portland and it stands to reason that he would. Then again, he may be living in another city or may not have the same name. He also may not look just like you. There
are
discrepancies between universes; we've found that out. However, if you really want to know, I can check for you.” I had to think about that. What would the other “me” look like or be like?

“No, that's okay, I guess.” I wasn't sure I'd want to meet the other me, if I was even alive over here. I stayed lost in thought for a bit until Avenger cleared his throat and continued on with his explanation.

“On this Earth, you'll find certain things that you wouldn't be able to explain back home,” Avenger said. “Magic and technology; they co-exist, and usually do so in harmony. There are other super-powered people here besides us; you'll meet them soon enough.” He paused to take a drink, and then continued: “But the laws of physics here are the same as elsewhere. A is still A, no matter where you go.”

That concept went right over my head; guess study time was on the menu for tonight.

“What are your real names?”

Avenger considered the question, and then answered. “My name's Wayne Halyard, you've met Deanna, and Black Guardsman is John Stinson.”

PowerGuy spoke up, pointing to himself. “I'm Mike Dent. You'll find out the other names later on, but keep it secret. The only reason we're telling you is because you're a visitor here. Think of it as a temporary stay and nothing more.”

Understood, but it was still cool to know who they really were and that they trusted me not to say anything about their names or where I was from. Hey, I could keep a secret as well as anyone.

Changing topics, I asked: “How long will I stay this way? I mean, I was really sick back in my own universe….”

“You're well now,” Avenger interrupted. He seemed surprised that I'd even ask such a question. “While your leukemia seems to be gone, it's the difference in vibratory signatures that's worrisome to us.”

“What do you mean?” That term lost me.

PowerGuy took up the cue. “Each universe has its own particular set of vibrations, or vibratory signatures, as we call them. It's one of the principles that Avenger used to build his portal. These signatures differ from each other only slightly, but each universe's signatures are immutable and as individual as snowflakes. Some will be incompatible with this universe. So far, you seem to be handling it well enough.”

For some reason, this gave me a very uneasy feeling. “Do you think that my, um, signatures will, uh, change over to the ones here?” I couldn't articulate what I was thinking, but something seemed to be wrong.

“I don't know,” Avenger said. “They seem to be holding their own, although the tests show they haven't changed over entirely.”

“And if I can't adapt?”

Deanna regarded me gravely. “Within three months, you'll begin to feel weak, age abnormally fast, and then die. That's the one universal law here.”

That was a shocker. “So, others came to this universe?”

“Yes,” said PowerGuy, his face somber. “Before you, there were five others, all from different dimensions, all brought here by accident. None of them lived.” A moment's silence…for the departed, I gathered.

“So, why can't you just send me back?”

“It's not that simple,” Avenger spoke up, pausing to fiddle with some controls on the console. I noticed that when he spoke, all the others looked to him. Yeah, he was the leader, alright. “The portal that brought you here was damaged by the difference between frequency vibrations. It will take at least five months if not more to re-attune it to your universe's frequency. It's a very intricate device; one slip and you could enter a world which, well, you wouldn't like.” That didn't sound good.

“Five months; that's too late for me.”

“Not necessarily,” he replied. “The medicine we've given you may buy you more time. It's stopped your leukemia for now and it also compensates for the difference in the universe's vibrations. You'll just have to wait. In the meantime,” he got up and the others did as well, “you're staying here. You'll have a job to do. What skills do you have?”

Think fast
. “Um, well, I can cook, and I'm pretty good on the cleaning end.”

A quick look between them, and then Avenger stated, “It's decided: Kitchen detail.” He took out a disc from one of the compartments on his utility belts and handed it to me.

There was silence for a moment and then he said, “Meeting adjourned,” and strode out.

The rest of them followed suit; only Deanna stayed behind. “I'll show you to your room,” she offered, and we walked out together.

Outside, as we were walking down the corridor, I stopped suddenly to look out the porthole window. A wave of emotion suddenly washed over me and my eyes began to tear up. “What's wrong?” she asked.

“I'm in space,” I answered, my voice hushed and shaking. “I'm…really in space.”

That got a smile from her. “It's very overwhelming, isn't it? You'll get used to it soon enough.”

I looked down at the Earth, all beautiful and blue, like a huge, shiny marble hanging in the middle of the inky blackness and light. If everyone, all the Elites and Tweeners and the other scum at my school could see me now; earlier, I'd thought it would be cool to tell them and make them eat their words and now…the tears suddenly flowed out.

“Are you okay?” she asked, this time real concern in her voice.

“I…I always wanted to do something special, be someone special, tell everyone I knew I'd be someone instead of being a loser and sick all the time, and now I can't tell anyone…” My voice failed me.

Deanna put her arm on my shoulder and squeezed it firmly. Good thing no one was around to see me crack up. “You're with friends now,” she said. “C'mon.” And with that, she led me to the lift, and we rode down to the fourth level and found my room; 467A. Along the way, I noticed the names of the other super heroes: Temptress, Repello/Blue Reyna, and a few others.

“Why did you put me here instead of with the regular guys?” I wondered.

“All of other staff rooms were filled and this is the only room available. Besides they live on the far side of the satellite, too far away. It's not a problem, is it?”

“No, no, not at all,” I said. Just to live next to them was great; maybe I'd even get a few autographs. I had a whole new group of people to meet.

She asked me for the disc and digging it out of my pocket, I gave it to her and she inserted it into the door slot. It popped out again; she took it and handed it back to me. “Don't lose it,” she said and the door whooshed open. With a small flick of her hand, she turned on the light and there I saw my new living quarters.

Roughly twenty feet by fifteen, I saw a bed near the porthole window, a small closet with a gray uniform hanging in it and some additional hangars. There was also a nightstand, clock, intercom and one more slot next to the intercom. I had no idea what that was for. Another door at the far end of the room led to a small combo toilet/shower. “I hope you'll be comfortable here,” she said. “Do your best tomorrow morning,” and left me to stare out the window. The door closed quietly behind her.

I stayed at the window for the next hour or so, looking at the beautiful Earth below me, then went to bed. Like Alice, I thought, just like Alice, except I was a guy and these people weren't evil or malevolent.

Sleep cycles must've kicked in. The lights had dimmed automatically to simulate night. I came awake to the faint sound of…bells, tinkling bells. Curious, I stepped outside; the sound was coming from across the hall, room 467B. The nameplate read: “Oriana.” The bell sounds got a bit louder, then abruptly stopped. Shrugging, I went back inside my room, found my bed, and went to sleep under the stars. Space; I'd finally made it. This time there were no tears. That thought sent me off to la-la land with a smile on my face.

The next morning, my alarm rang at four-thirty a.m. Shutting it off, I just lay there, listening to my body wake up. Then, the intercom buzzed. Fumbling around, I found the button and pressed it. “Yeah, who is it?” I said groggily. I was still half asleep.

“My name's John Campbell,” the voice said. “Head cook on this ship. It's time for your shift. Do you know where the lift is?

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” I said, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“Get ready, I'll be down soon.” The line went dead.

I got dressed in a hurry. The suit they'd supplied for me hung limply on my frame and I had to cinch the belt in a few notches. I ran to the lift area and Campbell greeted me there. A gray-haired, portly man on the short side of five-eight and the long side of forty, he wore a stained cook's smock and a pleasant smile. “I was told you're the new guy,” he said.

“Uh, yeah, I was just hired last week.” He extended his right hand.
What for…oh, right, dummy…shake it
. We shook hands, and he motioned me into the lift. “Get in. I'm, uh, not supposed to hang around down here too long.”

“Why?”

“Oh, off-limits and all that,” he answered. “The tech staff and the Ultras don't mix all that much. Wonder why they put you down here?”

“Maybe it has a better view,” I answered. It got a laugh out of him, and we rode up to the ninth deck. On the way, he said that he'd come from New York and that he'd been hired from his former place—a small diner in the heart of the city—a couple of years ago to manage the Commissary. He was in charge of the morning shift. Another guy named Carl Anderson manned the evening crew. I'd probably meet him later on. We talked a bit more, and soon arrived at the Commissary.

Time to go to work; I was on the clock. My first real day on the Tower had begun.

Four: On the Job and Meeting the Cast

“Your waffles are burning, Bill.”

“Aw, crap, not again!” Yeah, once again, the food had been ruined.

The warning came from Gwyneth, one of the other cooks. Morning shift in the Commissary, and twenty minutes into it, I was screwing up for the umpteenth time. Hastily, I took the now-ruined waffles from the griddle, tossed them in the garbage, and started over. Gwyneth gave me a sympathetic look and said softly, “You'll get the hang of it.” Yeah, I wondered, when?

I'd been on duty for only two weeks and already, I'd earned the reputation as being the worst cook on the Tower. John, my boss, had warned me repeatedly, saying, “Shape up, bud! This ain't the Hotel Florence. It's a cafeteria!”

And I'd tried, but cooking for almost two hundred people who all wanted the food
NOW
was a totally different story. I took another look around the Commissary and sighed. It seemed like all the Ultras and the regular crew was more than a little dissatisfied with my piss-poor effort and try as I might, I just couldn't keep up.

John pulled me outside again after another fifteen minutes of burning everything.

“This has been going on for two weeks. You were a cook on Earth, right?”

Alright, tell the truth
. “Actually, no I'm not. My…uh…parents passed away and I needed the job. I'll try harder.”

John, shook his head, muttered something about “dumb-ass kids making an old-timer's life rough” and went back to cooking. When I watched him prepare the morning grub, his hands were fast, deft, and sure; mine were clumsy and slow.

“Hang in there, Bill.” That came from Nick, another cook who was preparing hash browns and toast—he was repeating Gwyneth's words. “It takes time. Just try to keep up.”

All of the cooks had experience. Gwyneth was a plain, plumpish woman in her mid-twenties, and Nick, a short, blond guy, was about the same age; both had been on cafeteria duty for about two years. John was the oldest member and having been a cook for one of the busiest diners in New York prior to joining up with the Tower, had been the head chef for the last three years. He ran the kitchen like a diner; get it done fast, serve it up fast, and do it all over again for the next customer.

The Commissary was a very large room, located on the ninth floor. It was separated into two sections: One fairly small section for the Ultras, and the other, much larger area for the technical staff and crew. It held a number of tables all within easy walking distance to the “Food Court Area” a.k.a. the kitchen.

On my first day, I'd seen the two sides split off and asked John about it.

“Well, yeah,” John told me; “it's been that way since I got here and probably before that. Ain't no one complaining 'bout it,” he added. “They got their lives to lead and we got ours.”

Well, weird or not, it
was
a different universe. And come to think of it, I hadn't really seen much in the way of rooms or food in any of the cartoons I saw. Sometimes the characters would eat, but you didn't really know what it was, and it wasn't talked about that much.

A shout broke through my reverie: “Bill, you got those waffles ready yet?”

“Yeah,” I called back. “I'm coming!” Took the waffles out and for once, I hadn't burnt these. I slid them on a plate and the tech came up and grabbed the food.

“Thanks, Bill,” he said. “At least you're trying. I eat the same crap every morning and it really sucks.”

He had a point. While the other cooks, ten in all, were skillful at getting the food ready on time, it didn't look all that appetizing. Bacon was often either underdone or overcooked, the waffles were often burnt (my bad, here), and the eggs were a white, runny mess no matter who made them, with me being the sole exception.

The first time I'd prepared eggs, I felt confident. Everyone liked eggs, right? Started cooking six at a time, and then John told me: “Make more.”

“How many more should I make?” I asked.

“You'll need a lot,” he said, pulling out carton after carton and stacking them on top of the kitchen shelf. “Start with all of these.” He wasn't kidding. After frying, hard-boiling, poaching and sunny-side-upping around one hundred eggs, John Stinson a.k.a. Black Guardsman, came in and using his power suit to “form” a plastic shield, ordered, “Load it all on.”

On went ten eggs, plus a mountain of vegetables further down the line, and what looked like twenty pieces of hash browns from Nick. When he was a bit slow in serving Stinson, the poor dip got a piercing glare which practically caused him to wilt.

Gwyneth warned me: “Never be late with the Guardsman. You don't want to see him blow his stack on an empty stomach.”

Temptress, a pretty black woman who was his girlfriend, also had two trays full of food. “Good morning, Bill,” she said sweetly, and greeted every cook that way. Her boyfriend never said a word except to demand his eats in the a.m.

And they were
vegetarians
. I'd noticed that on my first day here.

“They don't eat meat?” I'd asked John incredulously.

“Nope,” John replied. “No meat or chicken or fish; that's for the rest of us mere mortals,” he said with a laugh. “And they don't smoke or drink, either,” he added. That figured, but even odder than not eating meat was the fact that they ate at least three times as much as the regular crew did. Wonderful: An army of superheroes with bottomless stomachs and a code of food ethics.

“Oh, crap, here comes Oriana,” one of the cooks said. “She is such a bitch to serve.”

Oriana was in the room across the hall from where I'd been stationed. I hadn't seen her in the Commissary before. One of the cooks told me she'd recently had her shifts rotated back to the morning, so here she was. No one liked serving her, I found out. She had an “attitude problem,” as someone put it.

She'd been named after Orion, the stellar hunter of Greek mythology. Her parents wanted a son but they got her instead and changed her name accordingly. She'd been trained to be a gymnast from the age of three and then got into the martial arts. She was the youngest and maybe the toughest member of the Association. From the way she walked and looked at everyone, she seemed to be a total bad-ass who didn't take crap from anyone and would rather kick your butt into next week than say hello.

She came a bit closer and I got a better look. About my age; sharp chin, high cheekbones and a long aquiline nose, long, wavy brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was dressed in black ankle-high boots, a red bodysuit with black stripes criss-crossing her body horizontally. She also had no cape but she did have a belt running over one shoulder. I took a quick look—was she carrying knives? Holy geez, she was! I'd read that she didn't like using guns; instead, she carried a variety of throwing and hunting knives.

She had the body of a gymnast or dancer. Even through her uniform I could see her ab muscles showing clearly. That's what being in shape meant, I guess. Except for Deanna, I'd never seen a woman so sexy. God, did I feel emo just thinking that!

Like many of the other heroes, she wore a mask; rather large and diamond-shaped, it covered much of her face, but her eyes shone out, a cold ice blue, watching everything and everyone. And all the Tech guys were watching
her
. Someone whistled; she walked over and stood in front of the jerk, just glaring at him 'til he backed off and mumbled an apology. “I'm sorry like hell!” I heard her say to the tech. “You're a creep!” Now
that
was major bad-ass!

She was beautiful. I felt my heart lurch just watching her. She caught me staring and strode over.

“Out of my way,” she ordered one of the regulars and he quickly moved. She stood in front of me. “You're the new guy, right?” she asked, straight to the point. Her voice was very feminine but sharp and clipped with no warmth at all. It sounded vaguely Spanish but what did I know, I was just too in awe of her to say anything. I just nodded.

“Your file said you come from Portland,” she continued. I nodded again. “…need some info on the area,” she was saying. “Part of a case I'm working on.”

Why couldn't I get my mouth working
? “You want information?” I finally managed to get out.

She looked at me coldly, as if I were the densest person alive and then put her trays down to stare a little more at me. “Yeah, information. I need to know all the major places the scum hang out. Y'gonna help me?” That came out as a challenge.
Think fast
. My father worked there, and often went boozing in the bars after his job was over. When he was sober, he sometimes filled me in on the details. I only hoped the places were still the same in this universe.

Getting my mouth in motion, I said, “Um, well, you could start with Mike's Place on Elm and Waterston, and then there's Nick's on Clark and Canal Street; probably lots of bars where maybe some bad guys hang out.”

“Bad guys,” she echoed, arching her eyebrows.
What was the problem, I was trying to help, wasn't I
? Didn't the Tower have a data-file library or something like that? What kind of place was this, heroes with an attitude problem? Whatever….

“Criminals,” I responded, using the proper word, “drug dealers, pickpockets…y'know…scum.”

That got a blank look from her. Then, “Thanks, busboy. You've been of great assistance,” she said sarcastically. She picked up her trays again, served herself a mountain of food and turned her back on me. Everyone watched her leave in silence, but something inside me wanted to come out. It was my voice.

“My name's Bill,” I called out loudly.

That stopped her in her tracks. She turned slowly to face me. “What?”

“It's Bill, Bill Lampkin. I'm a cook, not a busboy,” I repeated. Where'd that bit of ballsiness come from? Not only did Oriana look at me, but also the cooking staff was staring, along with the techs and even some of the Ultras.

I continued, my voice a little stronger: “I don't mind helping you, but I wanna be thanked for it.” I started cooking again. “That's the least y'could do.” I kept my head down, spatula working busily. Something made me look up and when I did, Oriana was standing and staring at me, a slightly quizzical look on her face. “What?”

“Thanks,” she said flatly, dropped her trays with a clatter and stalked out. Guess she'd be eating in her room today. Naturally, it fell to me to clean up the mess she'd made.

“You really cheesed her off,” said Gwyneth. She'd given me the lowdown on who was nice and who wasn't. Oriana fell into the “wasn't” category.

“Uh, doesn't anyone ever say anything?”

Gwyneth shook her head. “No,” she answered, “they give the orders; we follow them.” She paused for a moment. “Glad you stood up to her, Bill,” she added. “She can be a bit too pushy sometimes, y'know?”

“Pushy?”

“Bitchy,” repeated another cook.

Uh-huh
.

“First time for everything,” chuckled John. He laughed a little. “Put 'em in their place once in a while is okay by me,” he added and then threw me a towel. “Alright, you screwed up breakfast but at least you know how to clean. I want it sparkling, okay?”

Cleaning away the dishes and mopping the floor took another two hours-plus and then I had lunch with the staff. They chatted about various and sundry things but I was still thinking about Oriana. I didn't contribute to the conversation all that much, but I did learn that while they were very much into the work thing, almost all of them didn't figure on hanging around forever.

“Hey, bud,” John started. “I'm almost fifty. I got a wife down on Earth and two kids. Got enough money put away, so it's retirement for me soon. You stay up here long enough and big bucks or not, planet-side will start looking pretty good to you, too.”

Nick, the guy who'd been verbally demolished by Black Guardsman earlier on, told me that he wanted to go back to school and get a graduate degree in Political Science, maybe work up here again later on. “I like the job, Bill. Like John said, the money's good but nothing lasts forever. I've got to think of the future, y'know?”

Yeah, I did know, but I wasn't thinking about the cash thing, all I could think of was how much I'd screwed up that morning. “Don't let it get to you,” Nick told me. “You'll catch on sooner or later.” Lunch continued and I was silent all the way through it. After that, everyone broke off and went their separate ways.

The next two weeks after that breakfast battle with Oriana saw me slowly getting used to cooking, learning about Tower ops and doing some studying on my own. Since I was here, it was best to try and make a few contacts, so back to the Recreation Room I went. Some people were playing cards, and casually wandering over, asked if there was a game I could join in. “Mind if I join you?” was a lot better than “Can I play, please?” so intros were all taken care of, but conversation was tough. Knowing the words was one thing,; using them cleverly was another.

It was in the middle of a game of gin rummy that all conversation dried up. Everyone was looking at the doorway. Oriana, costume and all, was leaning against the wall, eyeing me. She then walked over and stood in front of the table. All the others in the room were whispering, but no one said a word aloud; no one dared. The room then emptied out in a hurry.

Oriana sat down at the now-cleared table and started. “I'm, uh…I sort of sounded off on you last time,” she began. She didn't even notice that everyone else had gone. “Tough day on the job…stuff happens, you know?” Her voice was a bit friendlier this time around.

“Uh-huh.”

“And,” she continued, “I probably caused a real mess, didn't I?”

“I cleaned it up.”

She looked at me again, almost as if she were looking right through me; maybe she figured I wasn't such a dork after all. Or did she? Wasn't sure on that at all, and then I realized…wow…was she apologizing to me? Well, if she was, that was alright…what to say?