Stella quickly slipped the unopened jewel case containing syringes and vials of Mega-Soldier Syrup back into her windbreaker; Avie and Seedy both rolled down their sleeves. No one, it appeared, was going to be transformed into a megahero.
“You want I should grab their guns, Rose?” said one of the Megatown Mobsters.
“No need,” said Rose Shark. “This is just a friendly visit. Besides, our next President of these United State believes in fostering the most deadly proliferation of firearms our nation and the world has ever seen.”
Gene and Seymour kept their weapons but no longer pointed them.
The head of the Megatown Mob, as I called them, took a long, slow drag on her long, thin, red cigarette holder, which matched her form-fitting red dress. She then turned to one of her gangsters and ordered, “Send the car back down. Tell my cousin everything’s been secured.”
“Rex, you stinker,” cried Grandma Seedy. “How could you?”
“How could I?” he replied. “As in, ‘How could little old Rex Rigid, boy wunderkind, betray his erstwhile Burly Boy, Girly Man colleagues—that dear old gang of mine? How could I sell you all out for forty pieces of silver and a spot in the new Gamble administration?’ Is that what you’re asking, Mercedith?”
“Something like that,” said Seedy.
Rex glowered. “You have no idea what my life has been like since the spectacular demise of the Atomic Soldier project, Seedy, old girl; no idea what a crushing blow such a failure could have for the career of a rising young genius who forever after would have to live with that taint on his wunderkind curricula vitae. It brought my career to an end before it even began; that’s what Burly Boy, Girly Man did. I never even finished my fifth PhD, I was so disheartened; instead of a career in academia, I had to scrounged for odd jobs, far removed from the mad science I so ardently loved.”
Instinctively, Rex wandered to one of the chalkboards, untouched for more than four decades and still covered with physics equations, that stood in the room. He produced a notebook from his pocket and seemed to be checking one last time the figures he’d copied down and obsessively gone over earlier that morning.
“It wasn’t easy for me, either,” said Seedy. “You think an African-American woman scientist has so very many opportunities to begin with? I sacrificed time away from my family, months apart from my young children, to live here on the East Coast, for the sake of this project; more was riding on me as a ‘credit to my race’ than you could ever comprehend. Had we succeeded, I could have looked forward to a modestly distinguished career as a college professor, but nothing like the path laid our for my white colleagues—no offense, Seymour—even the women. In all likelihood, I still would have faced discrimination, been denied promotion, been given freshmen classes to teach instead of substantive research. But when Elias and those two subject died, I knew I would never even make tenure; I was lucky to find work as a public school teacher in inner-city Detroit. At least I wasn’t embittered, like you.”
“Try settling orthopedic shoes in Schenectady,” said Rex scornfully. “A man of my talents! That fool, Levitch—too stupid to handle U-235 without giving himself a lethal dose! He deserved to die a painful death! I should have run the project as I saw fit to begin with; but no—who trusts a genius fourteen-year-old? So I had to watch as my intellectual property—the so-called Mr. Megaton—came to nothing! Then, forty years later, to get a call from Glenn: ‘Guess what? There’s this megahero, Ms. Megaton, who proves our theories—so, we’re getting the band back together. Someone’s even concocting a Mega-Soldier Syrup in Ann Arbor’”——Stella clutched the jewel case in her windbreaker pocket—“‘and we’re planning a whole legion of Atomic Soldiers. The surviving Burly Boy, Girly Man scientists are forming an informal presidential advisory committee.’”
Rex scowled.
“‘Oh, sure, Glenn, happy to rejoin my colleagues,’” Rex continued, “‘who haven’t cared one whit for what became of their pet wunderkind since World War II.’ Feh!” he scoffed, adding, “I’ve never trusted chemistry. Good, old-fashioned radioactive bombardment is the proper way to make an Atomic Soldier, as far as this old wunderkind is concerned.”
Rex turned and marched back toward the ring table, to where Seymour Starlight sat in his wheelchair.
“Then, to meet with these doddering fools, these failures who reduced me to a shoe salesman, in our nation’s capital, like they were still the gods of the earth.”
Rex looked at the Transdimensional Transceiver that still sat on the table.
“Then, to come here, to return to Bayonne, scene our greatest disaster, only to glimpse what my life could have been, as the leader of my own megahero team in another reality!”
He glanced at Stella, whom he’d never seen before.
“There, I suppose I would have had a young, pretty wife—like this young woman.”
“Yecch,” said Stella.
“It’s not the glamorous life he might think,” I whispered to my sister Avie. “Rex Rigid’s far better off in this timeline, if you ask me.”
“But now I have the opportunity to make up for past defeats,” said Rex, waving his notepad. “Now I have the opportunity—seldom given in this life—to correct past mistakes. Oh, it’s so obvious to me now, as I had some inkling then, where the miscalculations were made; so easy to see where others interfered and spoiled my vision; to know for certain what had gone wrong that should have gone right all along.”
“Rex, you’ve lost your mind,” said Seymour. “What went right in another reality was a million-to-one chance, a miracle. Even now, we could run Project Megaton or Project Meltdown a thousand times and still fail miserably. Success for Burly Boy, Girly Man just wasn’t in the cards.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Rex. “Now I have the backing of the President-Elect of the United States. Now I’m running the show, you old fool, and you can just sit by and watch.”
Gene turned toward the elevator; the car was returning. “Hail to the chief,” he muttered. “Seems like we’re about to be paid the honor of a presidential visit.”
“Unofficial, of course,” said Rose Shark.
The gates of the freight elevator opened, and out strode Bartholemew Gamble, President-elect of the United States, although yet to be confirmed by the Electoral College let alone sworn in. He didn’t need elective office to swagger; he strode into the room, a huge bulldog of a man with slicked-back hair that straggled long in the back, in a violet suit, smoking a big, stinky cigar. He was adorned by a piece of arm candy in the form of a leggy, tasteless supermodel in a designer dress.
“So, this is the Doomsday Factory,” he said through the painted-on grin of a Cheshire cat. “Our atomic arsenal of democracy.”
“Gee, whillickers,” said the supermodel.
“Good Lord,” said Stella.
Bart gave Rose a slap on the rump and a more-than-cousinly kiss. “How ya doin’, Rose?”
“Oh, Mr. President-Elect,” she said, in mock-Marilyn Monroe style. “Happy birthday!”
He marched right up to me; in my street clothes and shorn hair, he didn’t recognize me as his nemesis, Ms. Megaton, who’d been in the news and against whom he’d predicated his entire political campaign. He took in the chalkboards, the ring table, Seymour in his wheelchair, and three black women.
“Who are these people?” Bart asked. “They look like a waxworks. Is this some kind of schoolroom or something?. I hate school. Where’s the laboratory?”
“Oh, that’s down in a lower level,” said Rex. “Just checking my numbers one last time.” He put his notepad in his coat pocket.
“Then, let’s get to it,” said Bart. “I don’t have all day.”
A thin, white-haired man, presumably Bart Gamble’s personal tailor, emerged from the freight elevator. “I’ve prepared a choice of garments for Milord,” he said. He presented two folded bundles of fabric, one purple, one yellow.
Bart felt the fabric. “I hate yellow,” he said.
He took the garment from the tailor and flung it aside. Trent caught it. It unfurled; it was an oversized body suit, like the ones Grandma Seedy had sewn.
“I’ll wear the purple—I’ll change in the lab. And cut out that ‘Milord’ crap, Pedro. It’s Mr. President.”
“Pedro Dilletante Escobar,” muttered Seedy, impressed. “Big-name fashion designer.” She felt the fabric in Trent’s hands. “Not bad; I could have done better.” “Yellow’s my favorite color,” mused Trent, who examined the garment thrown at him.
“Gamble, how did a rat like you ever get on the ballot in the first place?” said Gene.
Bart was amused by the black soldier-of-fortune’s audacity. “The tried-and-true way,” he said. “I bought the party—and the election—lock, stock and barrel.”
He flicked his cigar ash in Gene’s face.
“Isn’t America a great place?” Bart continued. “Where else can a corrupt Manhattan real estate developer with a dream become President of the United States—and America’s Nuclear-Powered Hero—all at the same time?”
“Good Lord,” said Seymour. “What do you have in mind, Rex?”
“What does it look like, Dr. Starlight?” Rex replied. “You heard the President-Elect. He’s about to become a megahero—and I’m going to be is creator. Now, if you’ll excuse us …”
Rex dashed to the table of prototype Transcendental Transceivers and grabbed one.
“We’d invite you along to witness the birth of the true Atomic Soldier,” said Rex, “but there’s only so much room in the elevator. You’ll have to be content with watching on closed-circuit television.”
We were all flabbergasted at this, and remained speechless as the entourage of Bart Gamble, his tailor Pedro, Rose Shark, Rex Rigid, most of the Megatown Mobsters boarded the freight elevator. Four mobsters with Tommy guns were stationed at the elevator and stairs to guard the floor.
Rex called out before the gates of the elevator closed, “See you in the funny papers, as they say. Then the car descended and disappeared.
“Did I get that right?” asked Seymour. “Rex is actually planning to turn Bart Gamble into a megahero?”
“A megavillain, more like,” I said. “I wondered if this is how it played out in my native reality—how Bart Gamble became Bad Guy.”
“Madness,” said Seedy. “Running that experiment using that old equipment, as if it were still 1940. On that toxic lower-level, no less—still radioactive after our mishap. They’ll be lucky if they don’t blow up all of New Jersey, and us along with it.”
“Are we just going to stand idly by,” said Gene, “while that crook Bart Gamble not only becomes President of the United States but gains unstoppable megapowers as well?”
“Pipe down,” said one of the mobsters, who waved his Tommy gun at us menacingly.
I know readers who get their ideas of megaheroes from comic book think at this point I should have leapt into action, disarmed the gangsters, cut the cable to the elevator so that all on board plunged twenty stories to their deaths far underground, or some such. But I’ve never been a person of violence, unless I were really provoked. . Even with Kozmik Kat and Seymour and Gene still armed, there was still too much risk of someone innocent, like my sister or grandmother, getting hurt.
Besides, this whole transaction was unfolding so cordially, I was curious to see how it would all turn out.
The gangsters covering the exits paid no attention to us, I noticed, as they had already fallen into a game of shooting craps in the corner.
Avie switched on the Transdimensional Transceiver, which pictured nothing but snow.
“That Rex fellow didn’t even bother to synchronize the two transceivers,” she noted. “I don’t see how we’re going to get a closed-circuit picture of anything useful.”
“That reminds me,” said Koz. “I brought something for you.” He crawled into the kennel that Trent had carried him in and brought out the red blanket and another object. “Here you go, Ms. Megaton; special delivery from Detroit.”
It turned out to be my buttons and cape, along with my real visor.
“That’s right,” said Stella. “Secret Agent Preston Percy sent those along.”
“My accessories, covered in cat hair,” I said. “No offense, Grandma, Seymour, but these are the real thing.”
I placed the visor over my eyes and tapped its stem at my temple. Familiar computer screens appeared.
“Fully charged, too,” I said.
The red cape and buttons, which Kozmik Kat still clutched, fluttered to life. He let go, and the cat hair on the cape disintegrated in a shower of sparks.
“Egads,” said Koz. “I was napping all during the flight with a cape that has a life of its own.”
The cape levitated toward the ceiling.
“Heavens,” said Seymour. “Cats that talk and capes that fly by themselves!”
“What will they think of next,” said Seedy.
My cape and buttons, I knew, had already scanned the Doomsday Factory in my reality during our visit there; I assumed the layout recorded in its memory banks was more or less identical to this one.
“Cape, why don’t you keep an eye on things for us down on sublevel seventeen?” I ordered.
The cape and buttons responded with a nodding motion and fluttered along the high ceiling of the attic toward the elevator. Over the heads of the mobsters, who were engrossed in their game, the cape went unnoticed until it reached the grated gate.
“Must be draft in here,” said one mobster, looking up and noticing the cape. “Look at that rag!”
Another mobster, startled, pointed his Tommy gun at the cape; for a second, I thought perhaps he was going to open fire and drill it full of holes. But he held his fire until the cape had slipped through the gate and wafted down the empty elevator shaft. “This Doomsday Factory gives me the creeps,” he said. “The place is haunted, I tell ya; the sooner the boss does his business—and we break outta this place—the better.”
I set my visor down on the ring table. Gene, Trent, Stella, Simon, Seymour, Avie, Seedy and Koz all drew up chairs and sat down to watch as a holographic projection appeared over the open center of the table. Apparently, the image was so faint it could barely be seen more than a few feet away.
The dumb mobsters, being at the far end of the room, couldn’t see what we were up to; they seemed content we were docile and weren’t interrupting their game.
The image showed what the buttons of my cape saw as it descended the elevator shaft six floors to ground level, then seventeen more to the underground sublevel in which, in 1940, both Elias Levitch and Farley Pflug had met their respective fates in the ill-fated Project Megaton.
“So this is how it happened,” said Gene. “How you became a megahero, Clarissa.”
“Not me,” I said. “Like I told you, I inherited my megapowers from my biological father. And the Silver Age Megaton Man got his powers differently, I understand. But I think this conveys the general idea of how the first generation of megaheroes were born.”
“Poor Uncle Farley,” said Trent. “I never knew the guy. He must have been very brave, or stupid.”
“He was a nice farm boy,” said Seedy. “He deserved a better fate.”
“Who was that awful Rex Rigid?” asked Stella. “That man is utterly appalling.”
“You married him in my reality,” I said.
“No way!” cried Stella.
Seymour, Stella’s adoptive father, told her, “Rex Rigid was a brilliant young mind in his day. And he’s correct: he did make major contributions to Project Megaton. But I seriously doubt even Rex can get that laboratory up and running by himself, let alone make the experiment a success, at this late date. I’m afraid we’re about to watch the President-Elect bite the dust.”
“That wouldn’t entirely be a bad thing,” said Avie.
My cape reached the seventeenth sublevel and surreptitious took up a perch up by the ceiling that offered a bird’s-eye view of the laboratory. There, it remained undetected by the Bart, Rose, Pedro, or the entourage of mobsters a Rex went about the business of turning Bartholomew Gamble, President-Elect of the United States, into Mega-Bad Guy.
The entire process took less than twenty minutes, which was fortunate for the humans who had ventured down to the sublevel, since the space was still contaminated with a low level of radiation that might prove lethal if exposure were prolonged. Rex had donned a lab coat that made him more closely resemble the disheveled Liquid Man I knew from my reality. As Rex activated the laboratory equipment, untouched since 1940, Bart Gamble stripped to his britches and put on the purple body suit Pedro handed to him. Rose Shark and everyone else took their places behind the lead wall. Rex adjusted the energy cannons trained on the depressed disk we’d seen before; Bart took his place in this spot. Rex went over to a control panel and dialed in some numbers he’d jotted down in his note pad.
“So this is how you guys created the Original Golden Age Megaton Man, at least in my reality; I suppose it was much the same for Major Meltdown.”
I glanced over at Seymour and Seedy, who had been on the Meltdown team of scientists.
“Our set-up was completely different,” said Seymour. “An entirely different process.”
“It’s how both teams managed to kill three people in this reality,” rued Seedy. “It may be how Bart Gamble meets his fate.”
“What did that lady, Hyacinth, say about evil destroying itself?” said Avie.
Apparently, my cape’s buttons could pick up audio, because we heard Bart’s voice say, “Let ‘er rip.”
One of the mobsters by the door heard their master’s voice and turned toward us. “I said pipe down over there.”
A blinding flash of light followed; then, the visor’s holographic projection went dead.
We expected the entire Doomsday Factory to shake with some dreadful rumble, which never came.
“Oh, no,” I said. “They’ve killed my cape!”
Momentarily, we heard the elevator wheels begin to crank. Some of the party, at least, had survived, and were returning to the attic.
I tucked my visor into my pocket; the group of us got up from the table and turned our attention to the elevator, where I half-expected to see Rex half-scorched and dazed. The gangsters guarding us also waited with baited breath.
“Twenty to one the car’s full of radioactive sludge,” said one of the mobster.
“You’re on,” said another.
As the mobsters laid bets, the elevator car arrived. The gate lifted.
Rose and Rex got off first. They seemed to be in perfect condition.
Turning back to the car, Rose asked, “How do you feel, cousin?”
An immense, muscled figure clad in purple strode out behind them.
“Not bad; pretty good,” said Bart, grinning, still recognizable with a cowl pulled over the top part of his face. “I feel like I can take over the world.”
The body suit he wore now bore a striking magenta “B,” no doubt activated by the radiation.
Pedro clasped his fingers to his lips and made a smooching motion. “Magnifique,” he proclaimed.
“Now, where is this Ms. Megaton?” said Bart. “I dare her to show her face.” He looked up at the overhead skylight, which showed the glowing night sky over Bayonne and Megatropolis, as if he was expecting her to fly crashing in to challenge him.
Avie and Seedy drew close to me, protectively.
“You won’t believe it, Mr. President,” said Rex ingratiatingly, “Ms. Megaton’s here in this room; you stood right next to her just a few moments ago.”
Rex marched Bart right up to my face. I suppose to him I looked like just another unremarkable black girl one might see on the street and pay no attention to.
“Har!” bellowed Bad Guy. “That’s a good one!” He slapped Rex on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of the scientist. “No, really. I want to find this Ms. Megaton and enjoy the pleasure of rubbing her out myself.”
“You don’t look so tough,” said Koz, who stood at Bad Guy’s feet.
Now Bad Guy was almost doubled over in laughter.
“This is the best you’ve got? A little colored girl and a talking cat? Some megaheroes! Taking over this reality is going to be easier than I thought!”
“Not quite,” I heard Stella mutter under her breath behind me.
Trent cried out, “Ouch! Jesus Christ, Stella!”
I turned to see Trent rubbing his shoulder and Stella tucking a syringe back into her windbreaker pocket.
“Woo!” said Trent. “What was that for?”
“Mommy, what’s happening to Daddy?” asked Simon.
Stella had injected Trent with a dose of Mega-Soldier Syrup.
Next: Mr. Megaton
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