“Of course not,” Stella replied. “We flew.”
“Flew? But Stella, you guys can’t fly. In this reality, you’re civilians, not megaheroes.”
“On a plane, silly,” she replied.
She stepped of the freight elevator, followed by Trent and Simon. The three of them marched out of the freight elevator and looked around the attic of the Doomsday Factory.
Dr. Sax had been nestled in Seymour Starlight’s lap, but now the black cat perked up her ears. Trent was carrying one of those cages used to ship pets; inside, a small animal was sleeping under a red blanket. Trent set the crate down. Dr. Sax approached the kennel cautiously.
Stella spotted her adoptive father and sprinted over to his wheelchair, giving him a hug. “Are they treating you well, Dr. Sternlicht?”
“As well as can be expected, Stell,” said Seymour. “Frankly, I’m surprised to see you, too—so soon. I thought it wouldn’t be for several weeks yet, at least.”
Gene, who had never met my former housemates from Ann Arbor, waved the muzzle of his submachine gun in Trent’s face, “How did you get into the building?”
“Woo!” said Trent, recoiling from the weapon; he held up a slip of paper, shrugging. “We just punched in the passcodes Dr. Starlight left on our fridge door.”
Gene, dismayed by this lapse in security protocol, glared at Seymour.
“I’m entitled to trust my own daughter, aren’t I?” explained the scientist. “Gene, I’d like you to meet Stella Starlight, her parenting partner Trent Pflug, and their son, Simon—my grandson.” He turned to Stella: “But dear, I told you only to come once the syrup was ready.”
“It’s ready,” said Stella, patting the pocket of her navy blue windbreaker. “Sooner than expected.”
“The Mega-Soldier Syrup?” I asked. “Based on my—I mean, Clarissa Too’s—blood plasma?”
“That’s right,” said Stella. She pulled a plastic jewel case out and showed it off proudly; it contained five small, glass vials and two hypodermic needles. “Anybody need a booster shot?”
“I certainly don’t,” I said. Just the sight of a needle was enough to make me cringe.
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Avie. “You have to admit, Clarissa, you haven’t been yourself lately. Why, Ms. Megaton took on Big, Blue, Bulky Guy singlehandedly just a few weeks ago, all by herself. Just now, the old you would have whisked downstairs at lightning speed at the first sound of anyone entering the ground floor—based on your acute sense of hearing.”
“I’m not myself lately because I’m not Ms. Megaton, Avie,” I said. “I’m Ms. Megaton Man—your sister from another reality. Just because I don’t have the psycho-macho male tendencies of Big, Blue Bulky Guy, or—I don’t know—Dana or somebody—doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me.”
“Who’s Dana?” asked Trent.
“Oh, some crazy bitch and former lover,” I said. “A Youthful Permutation who developed a fixation on me and wrote slut-shaming graffiti about me all over southeastern Michigan …”
I noticed everyone looking at me funny.
“That’s right, I’m bisexual—what’s wrong with you people? And you never heard of a Youthful Permutation? They’re a—whaddyacall—a kind of naturally gifted megahero …”
The blank stares persisted.
“Oh, never mind,” I said. “I should know better than to try to explain my reality to a bunch of civilians.”
Avie rolled up her sleeve. “Here, Stella,” she said. “Give me the shot.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” protested Seedy. “That stuff hasn’t even been tested.”
“It’s been tested,” said Stella. “On several lab mice.” “What became of them, anyway?” asked Seymour.
“They’re still at large, somewhere in the woods of Michigan,” said Stella. “So, we tried the syrup on a common alley cat to sic on ‘em, but no such luck.”
“Unfortunately, that dog won’t hunt,” said Trent. “Although he does make a nice pet for Simon.
“He’s a scaredy-cat,” said Simon, who opened the cage of the kennel. “Come on out, Cosmo.”
“Leave me alone,” said a voice under the red blanket in the cage. “I’m just getting a few winks after that bumpy ride in the cargo hold…”
“Cosmo?” I said. “Cosmo Cat?”
A tawny felines stretched his arms and yawned. “Who’s taking my name in vain?”
“Good Lord,” said Seymour. “A talking cat!”
Groggy, the animal crawled out of the cage and, with effort, stood on its hind legs. He wore a cyclopic, red-lensed set of goggles over his eyes, and had a red cape—not a blanket, it turned out—affixed to his blue and yellow body suit. He wore red trunks.
“I sewed him a little costume to match yours, Ms. Megaton,” said Clarissa.
“Kozmik Kat,” I said. What were the chances of locating the identical stray in another dimension and giving him megapowers?
“You must be Clarissa,” said Koz, “the cause of all my sorrows. I was perfectly happy before your friend her gave me consciousness and a penchant for sardonic observations—except for the malnutrition, fleas, and heartworm, which would have eventually killed me.”
Koz spotted Dr. Sax.
“Hello,” he said. “And who might you be, young lady?”
Dr. Sax scurried back into Seymour’s lap.
“So much for the Mega-Solder Syrup being untested,” said Avie. “Are you satisfied, Clarissa? Now, Stella, give me shot.”
“She’s already dressed for it,” said Trent, who eyed my half-sister’s curves in the form-fitting blue body suit Seedy had made earlier that afternoon.
“Over my dead body, Avie,” I said. “You are not transforming into a megahero.”
“We could use reinforcements,” said Gene. “When the Megatown Mob strikes, the shit’s going to hit the fan.”
“I was reluctant to conduct a trial on a random human,” said Stella. “Their metabolism would have to perfectly compatible with your blood type, Clarissa—preferably a close relative of yours.”
“That’s why I asked Stella to get here as soon as possible,” said Seymour. “We have two James relatives right here.”
“Logically, it has to be me, Sissy,” said Avie. “Unless you want Grandma Seedy to turn into Grandma Megaton.”
“I’m too old for megaheroics,” said Seedy. “I wouldn’t look good in tights.”
“I’m Clarissa’s second cousin, don’t forget,” said Trent. “In fact, I volunteered to test it out. I’m expendable.”
“Don’t be a fool, Trent,” scolded Stella. “Simon needs his father.”
Trent was hurt by this remark; better if Stella had told him she couldn’t live without him.
By this time, Dr. Sax, who sensed that Koz was putting the moves on her, leapt from Seymour’s lap to the ringed table, with Koz in hot pursuit. Simon crawled under the table and popped up on the inside; the three of them began running around and around in circles, the cats on the table top, Simon inside the perimeter.
“Or the boy,” said Grandma Seedy. “Simon would also be a candidate, since he’s a blood relative of Clarissa—a second cousin once removed.”
“A child will lead us,” said Gene.
“I don’t think that’s very funny,” said Stella. “I’d sooner give myself megapowers than turn my only son into a costumed freak.”
It was a bit shocking to hear Stella blurt out those words, although it wasn’t exactly a surprise. Even in my reality, where megaheroes seemed relatively abundant—and even among the megaheroes themselves—there existed a palpable fear and loathing, or self-loathing, of costumed crime fighters. In the Civilian Reality, even the Burly Boy, Girly Man scientists—who had tried but failed to create an Atomic Soldier—seemed to hold megaheroes contempt, or at least took a dim view of how Ms. Megaton turned out.
What had they expected their Atomic Soldier to look like, act like? I wondered. Did they envision him (or her) in army fatigues? Did they envision legions of identical, interchangeable automatons that could be ordered around like robots? When I had given my account of what had occurred in my timeline, I expected the Burly Boy, Girly Man to celebrate their success, albeit in an alternate reality. Instead, Seymour and his uptight colleagues seemed appalled at the thought of a universe—two, in fact—populated by a profusion of unruly, misfit megaheroes, not to mention villains, Malleables, Youthful Permutations, nocturnal crime fighters, disembodied brains, talking cats animals, and various other oddities. Such a Fiascoverse didn’t seem to be what they had in mind.
“At least we have options,” Seymour pointed out. “In this very room, we have four likely candidates to receive the Mega-Soldier Syrup: Avril, Mercedith, Trent, and Simon, all at least related to Clarissa. Of course, without blood tests, we can’t be one hundred percent certain …”
“You can also kill people with that stuff,” I said. “Someone in my native reality tried cooking some Mega-Soldier Syrup in his bathtub; it turned him in a megapowered monster, all right—before he exploded, leaving blue goo all over the walls of an alley.”
“In that case, it should be tired out on me first,” said Seedy, rolling up her sleeve. “I’m old; I’ve lived my life. Besides, I watched poor Farley Phloog writhe and perish after what we did to him—I’m not going to stand by and watch that happen to my own kin in the name of science.”
“Grandma, you’re not going to try the syrup; I am,” protested Avie.
Soon, Trent, Avie, and Seedy were all arguing over who should take the shot first.
Suddenly, the wheel in the pulley of the elevator shaft creaked loudly again.
“The car’s being lowered again,” said Gene. “That means someone on another floor has called for it—no doubt, the first floor. Something tells me this time it’s not a false alarm.” He turned and glared at Stella and Trent. “How did you arrive here from the airport? Cab? Rented car? It doesn’t matter—you were followed. Damn! Half the county looking for Clarissa, and you led them to right where she’s hiding.”
“Easy, Gene,” said Seymour. “It’s got to be Glenn or another of our Burly-Boy, Girly Man colleagues.” Still, the scientist clutched his own weapon apprehensively.
“They would have notified us,” said Seedy. “They wouldn’t just drop in, unannounced.”
“How would they have gotten a message to us?” I said. “We don’t have phone service, remember.”
“We should go to the roof,” said Avie. “There are ropes up there—we can escape by repelling down the side of the building.”
“It would be no use,” said Gene, who was pressing the buttons next to the elevator to no avail. “They’d have the place surrounded.”
“No, it’s a good idea,” said Seymour, who now cocked the submachine gun and pointed it at the elevator. “You take the stairs to the roof; I’ll hold them off for as long as I can while you make your getaway by helicopter.”
“The helicopter’s behind the building, not on the roof,” said Gene. “They’ll already have disabled it.”
Trent, who had crawled under the ring table and was now clutching his son, said, “Now’s your time to shine, Ms. Megaton—you and Kozmik Kat.”
“Are you kidding?” asked Koz, who was out of breath from chasing Dr. Sax. “I’m not getting my hair mussed to save bunch of you two-legged creatures. Where’s the fire escape?”
The wheels in the elevator shaft stopped; the car clearly had completed its journey to the first floor and was now taking on a passenger or passengers. Momentarily, the wheels began cranking again. The next several moments were tense and sweaty; I could feel myself perspiring inside the uniform under my street clothes.
“It won’t be long before we find out who our guests are,” said Gene, unlatching the safety.
The elevator ground to a stop; the gates opened.
“Don’t worry, folks,” said Rex. “It’s just little old me.”
“What do you know,” said Seedy. “He did forget his hat.”
But Rex wasn’t alone. Behind him were several men in pinstriped suits and white fedoras, with neatly-trimmed mustaches and cyclopic, red-lensed goggles over their eyes. Some held violin cases from which they produced Thompson submachine guns; others already had their weapons out and were affixing disk-like drum magazines.
“The Megatown Mob!” I cried.
The men marched off the freight car behind Rex. Gene and Seymour, instinctively, lowered their weapons in the face of superior firepower. The gangsters made no move to disarm them; they only leered at our collective helplessness.
I didn’t move a muscle; even with Kozmik Kat’s help, I couldn’t possibly have shielded Avie, Seedy, Seymour, Stella, Trent, and Simon from the hundreds of rounds that could be released in a matter of seconds.
Rex Rigid turned back and called into the elevator, “Rose, my dear, where are you? I’d like to introduce you to some of my friends.”
A stunning woman in a red, form-fitting dress emerged from the flank of bodyguards, taking a slow drag from a long, red cigarette holder. “I never doubted you, boys,” she said. “I just never like to be the first one into a room—I just like to make an entrance.”
“Rose Shark,” Gene muttered in disgust. “We’re screwed.”
Next: Rex, Rose, and Mega-Bad Guy
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| Rose Shark and the Megatown Mob from the back cover of Megaton Man #6 (Kitchen Sink Press, |
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