Desperate Times Read online

  "Folks, I'm not sure if what I'm hearing is true, but there's been some sort of attack on the venue. I'm told we have video?" He looked off to the side for confirmation, which he apparently got. "Please, if there are children present you'll want to have them leave the room. I'm told the images are from a plane that was en route to the Tournament and has since been diverted. Again, these images are shocking."

  The picture changed and for a moment I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It just didn't make sense. In the middle of an endless vista of water, with nothing else around it, was a huge mushroom cloud.

  "What?" I stammered, "Where's the stadium?"

  As if in response, Dan's voice came through the monitors, "It looks as if the venue, and all those in attendance, has been destroyed. God help us all."

  # # #

  Chapter 2

  Gale and Rod barely said two words to me before leaving. They were too busy shouting into their concealed microphones and listening for responses. From what I could tell, they didn't get any. We had met a few blocks away before moving to the waterfront warehouse the terrorists had used as a base of operation. I'd teamed up with too many supers to go anywhere with them without a car nearby. They always seemed to have an excuse handy for why they'd leave me stranded without a ride. All except for Samantha, Whisper, who could open a gate and watch me try to hold down my lunch as I stepped through.

  Samantha.

  I glanced up at the sky as I stumbled down the street, the shock of what I'd witnessed threatening to overwhelm me. Above me, shooting stars made their way from horizon to horizon. I wanted to believe they were meteors, that they were some sort of astrological event that I hadn't known to expect, but I didn't. What I thought they were, what I knew they were, were pieces of The Bulwark's secret space station raining down on the planet. Burning up in orbit. If Samantha hadn't been on board when it happened, she surely was at the Tournament of Supers when the mysterious figure landed.

  I reached my car, my breaths coming in rapid succession. I wasn't completely out of shape, but I couldn't seem to get enough air. I closed the door and gripped the steering wheel tightly. I closed my eyes and forced myself to inhale deeply to slow myself down. After a moment, my breathing nearing normal, I inserted the key shakily and the engine rumbled to life. I reached up and flipped the two latches that locked the car's roof to the windshield frame. I pressed a button on the dash, which slowly retracted the top into the trunk. After what I'd just seen, I could use all the fresh air I could get. Again, I took a deep breath, looked around, and pulled out.

  I wasn't far from the office. Well, my home slash office. I supposed the reason I thought of it as an office rather than my home was because of all the things I wanted to do when I got there. There were people to call. Ted Vente, known as Tinkerer, was a longtime colleague, if not a friend, who created many of the gadgets that I currently used. He made the protective clothes I wore, the Inertial Dampener in my belt, and a number of other gadgets back at the office. Liz Novac was my oldest friend, someone I'd known since childhood, who ran TOP - Tippy Outreach Program. I doubt either would have been at the Tournament, but I still felt the need to check up on them.

  Fortunately, Gale was with me when it happened. She's the only super I'd...

  Khan.

  Damn.

  Khan was my assistant and, I daresay, one of the few supers I'd called friend. Khan was the fastest man on the planet. The problem was that he could only maintain that speed for a short time. Six months ago, I'd worked a case with Doc Arts, one of the best super scientists on the planet. He'd died in the end, a victim of one of his own creations. But before he died, he'd helped Khan overcome his limitation. Soon afterwards, Khan had left my employ and joined the ranks of the Super State. In a few short months, he'd risen from a Level 1 citizen to a Level 4. It was unheard of to rise so fast in the ranks of the supers, but with his power and the influence of his parents - two of the most powerful supers on the planet themselves - he was on the brink of being promoted to Level 5. That would have put him in the government of the Super State and made him a likely candidate for membership in The Bulwark. He told me he'd be at the games. I could only hope that he'd gotten away in time. If anyone could, it was Khan.

  I reached down and flipped on the radio, trying to clear my head. There wasn't anything I could do until I reached a phone. Even then, I imagined the phone lines would be packed with tippys just like me trying to reach friends and family. Not the supers. They had their own methods. They wouldn’t be relegated to listening to busy signals and recorded messages. I rubbed my eyes, trying to slow my rushing thoughts. The wind whipped past me, smelling of the sea and...smoke?

  I looked down at the radio. The light was on, but I wasn't hearing anything. I turned it up. Only static. "What the hell?" I flipped between my five preset stations. The first two were only static. One sounded like the record had finished and the needle was scratching at the end. The fourth was simply a person crying uncontrollably. I pressed the last button.

  "… driving right now, stay away from downtown, particularly near the stadium." The announcer mostly managed to keep her voice from shaking. "As you probably know, they were showing the Opening Ceremonies live to a sellout crowd. The traffic in the area is gridlocked and we've been getting reports of violence. To repeat, there's been an incident at the Tournament of Supers. Someone has, for lack of a better word, obliterated the games' stadium and apparently all those in attendance. We're trying to bring you the most recent information, but right now details are scarce. There has been no word from The Bulwark or anyone in the Super State hierarchy."

  Of course not. They were too busy taking care of their own. Why would they stop to reassure the public who were probably panicking?

  "The police have asked that all off-duty members report to their local precinct immediately and that the public stay off the streets." There was a pause and a rustling of papers in the background, "Okay, we have some new information. Oh, thank God, it's from the Super State. Okay, it says, and I quote, 'As you undoubtedly know, the Tournament of Supers has been interrupted by an unknown super. While we are still ascertaining the extent of the damage, rest assured that key members of The Bulwark are still in operation and are working tirelessly in your defense. This is a challenging time, we know, but we will persevere. For now, if you have a power, no matter how insignificant, please contact your local Super State representative. If they cannot be reached, contact your local police force. It is time for all of us to work together for the good of the planet. We will keep all of you informed as best we can. Thank you.'"

  The DJ took a deep breath, "Well, that's something at least. I'm going to take a break, so let's listen to..."

  I turned off the radio. Taller and taller buildings passed my car window as the smell of smoke got stronger. My office was downtown, but nowhere near the stadium area. It wasn't the nicest section of town but it had the advantage of being cheap. There was constant talk of gentrification of my neighborhood, but so far, there had been little movement. As I got closer, I found more and more people on the street. Many were looking up to the sky, hoping to see a passing super. A few were starting to gather together in heated conversations. I knew the neighborhood well from living there for over three years, so I felt confident I could get home regardless of the situation. Occasionally I'd glimpse a figure fleeing down a dark alley, but nothing too ominous.

  When I got within five blocks, things got a bit more tense. I had to avoid a few streets with burning cars and smaller mobs. Finally, I saw a mostly clear street that would bring me within a block of my building and could, with a little luck, lead to the back entrance of the parking garage. Glancing to both sides and not seeing any traffic, I floored the accelerator and blew through a red light. It was time to get home and it wasn't like there would be any cops around to pull me over.

  * * *

  "Something's wrong with this stupid thing," a voice from the back of my office called out.

  I thr
ew my jacket on the couch in the foyer of my flat, sighing. While the basic design of the space was open, I had walls installed to delineate different areas. This compartmentalized my life as well as the space. The door downstairs required a key and a code, or for someone upstairs to "buzz" visitors in over the intercom. At the top of the stairs, a second door opened into the foyer, which doubled as my assistant's office and waiting room. I rarely had so many clients that there was any need to wait.

  Through the double door behind my assistant's desk was my office. From the foyer, to the left, was a hidden door that opened to a hallway with a half bathroom that led to the open kitchen and living area. Beyond that was the single bedroom and attached master bathroom. This gave clients the illusion that they were visiting an office and served to keep my work areas separate from my living areas. Unfortunately, it often didn't work. I spent many nights sleeping at my desk, on the couch in the foyer, or at the terminal hidden in the closet behind my desk.

  It was from the terminal that the sounds of frustration emanated.

  I had gone for months without an assistant after Khan left. I had made more than enough money on my last job and didn't really need to work. Plus, emotionally, I needed the break. The Doc Arts case had taken a lot out of me and I tried to use the time to recuperate. When the terrorist plot fell into my lap, I made two calls: one to Gale to report the plot, and the second to a service to start sending over possible assistants for me to interview.

  Nissa hadn't come from the service; well, not exactly.

  The problem was that I have very specific needs. I don't have much of a life outside of my work and that means neither can my assistant. Because of this, I pay my assistants very well. Most can't handle the hours. Others can't stand me as a person, which I can understand. Most are under the illusion that there is some sort of glamour to PI work. Believe me, there isn't. Most of the job is waiting around for someone to do something stupid so you can take a picture of it. The rest is paperwork. And no one likes that.

  Nissa had shown up about a week after I had interviewed and rejected her friend. I'd opened my door to a five foot, four inch girl with almond-shaped, brown eyes and long, brown hair. Her height was slightly offset by the foot tall mohawk fanning off her head. She hadn't shaved the sides of her head, but instead, sculpted the hair tight to the sides then pulled it forward into what amounted to longish sideburns. She'd worn dark eyeshadow, which covered her eyes and angled out to the sides in points that followed the lines a set of eyeglasses would make. Her skin was artificially pale, makeup covering her natural olive complexion. She had a small stud that protruded just below her lower lip.

  She had stood in my doorway like she owned it, hand on hip, chewing gum noisily, "So, Jess tells me you're looking for an assistant?"

  I'd nodded.

  "Pay's Level 5?"

  I'd smiled, "If by that you mean good? No. It's great."

  "I can type, file, take messages, all that. What else you need?"

  "Ever used a computer?"

  "A bit in college."

  Good, but not great. Honestly, not many tippys had even seen a computer. The Super State had only recently introduced them into colleges and sold them to the uber-rich. Most tippys couldn't afford one and wouldn't know what to do with one if they could. "You can drive a stick?"

  She'd raised an eyebrow.

  "Fine, how about buying alcohol?"

  She'd shifted her weight to the other foot, "Almost, but I know a guy for now."

  "Good enough. Listen, not sure what this Jess told you, but the hours suck. I work all the time and so will you. You'll be dealing with supers, many of who will be pissed off and scary. There is a better than average chance that you'll have your life threatened at some point and take messages that threaten mine weekly. I'll have your number memorized and I expect you to pick up. There will be stakeouts with my smelly ass for hours on end. You'll probably have to do a few yourself. You'll be managing people who'll do jobs for me. You'll be making payouts, keeping the books, and handling potentially large sums of money. There is a good chance you'll be asked to do things that you'll think are immoral if not illegal."

  Again, she'd raised an eyebrow.

  I'd put my hands up, "Nothing sexual." I'd paused, mulling over the possibilities, "Probably. But stuff like spying, taking incriminating photos, and listening in on phone conversations will be standard operating procedure. That going to be a problem?"

  She'd shrugged, "You that guy that investigates supers?"

  I'd nodded.

  "Groovy. Yeah, I'm cool with all that, I suppose."

  "No, there's no, 'I suppose.' This is an all or nothing deal. You sign on the dotted line and you're in. There is no out. The only way out is either to convince me you're trustworthy or I have your mind wiped."

  She'd scoffed, blowing a bubble with her gum.

  "That's not a figure of speech. It'll happen." I'd stared hard at her, "You in?"

  She'd thought for a moment, sucked the bubble back in, then nodded.

  "Spit out the gum."

  She'd done so.

  "The hair goes."

  "Nope."

  I'd stared into her eyes, trying to intimidate her, "You always going to talk to me like that?"

  "Pretty much, natch."

  I'd cracked a small smile, "Fine, your probation period starts tomorrow at eight a.m.. Don't be late."

  She'd shown up on time, but of course I was dead asleep. It had taken about an hour before I'd finally heard the insistent ringing from the intercom. Even then, all I'd done was buzz her up. I'd finally gotten out of bed around ten, not that I'd slept much more. By then she had rearranged her office with a cassette player, a framed set-list from a band I'd never heard of, and a few pictures of her and her glassy-eyed friends holding drinks and screaming at the photographer.

  Over the next few days, I'd become familiar with her standard outfit. She'd generally kept her hair in the large mohawk I'd seen when she first interviewed, though she'd sometimes let it fall a little forward in a style that was still erect on top of her head, but fell over one eye and lay flat at the back. I'd found this to be slightly more attractive, but I hadn't dared to tell her. She wore a long sleeved, white thermal top, tattered blue jeans rolled up at the cuff, and black, high-top shoes. Aside from the hair, it was a pretty conservative outfit. Her single piercing under her lip changed daily from one semi-precious stone to another and she'd often had a number of different small, hoop-style earrings climbing the edge of her left ear. Her right ear wasn't pierced. While she'd always kept the same eye makeup that pulled toward her ears, it was often lightly shaded to match the stone in her lip piercing. Her face was always powdered slightly whiter than her natural complexion.

  In spite of the punk affectations, Nissa was a pretty girl. Her chin was pointed, but not weak, her lips were full, and her small nose had a slight upturn. Her skin was smooth and healthy, even under the makeup, her eyebrows evidence that she hadn't dyed her hair. She had an athletic build that she probably didn't have to work for.

  It wasn't until I saw her deal with a walk-in that I'd decided to hire her. A super who called himself The Grim, wearing a long, hooded cloak that completely covered his face and body, appeared in the waiting room in a cloud of smoke. He carried a scythe so tall and long it was a wonder he didn't knock over furniture. From my half-opened door, I'd heard their conversation. He had demanded to see me and she wearily told him I wasn't taking on new clients, something I had directed her to say. I heard her flipping through the pages of her music magazine as if he weren't there. Of course, his voice sounded like he'd been gargling gravel, something I was sure he'd practiced for years. When he leaned over her desk with his gleaming scythe in his skeletal hand and threatened to torture her mind and soul until she begged for the sweet release of death, she'd simply responded that she'd been pierced in places that would make him scream like a little girl. I'd peeked through the crack in the door and saw The Grim stand back slowly. He'd raise
d a bone finger as if to respond, thought better of it, and then turned to leave. At the door he'd paused and asked - in a non-gravelly voice, I'd noted - if she’d tell me he'd stopped by. She didn't acknowledge him; her only response was the flip of a magazine page. Eventually he'd left. As The Grim closed the door I'd walked out of my office with a contract of employment. She was all smiles, but her hand was shaking a little as she signed.

  She had taken to the job well. I was really just getting back into the game and I mostly had her looking up old contacts and introducing herself. I'd needed to know where everyone was, all my acquaintances and associates. I'd only been out of the game for six months, but six months on the street would mean a lot of changes. As her training progressed, I had her playing around with the terminal that Gale had left with me.

  These days, supers had access to gadgets small enough to be sewn into their suits that could access the supercomputer known as Mind, although as recently as five years ago, it required a terminal the size of a small desk. When Gale and I split, I'd "acquired" her old terminal. With it, I could access data very few governments, much less civilian tippys, were privy to. In my line of work, knowing exactly whom I was working for was better personal protection than a bulletproof vest. Nothing could keep me safer than the supers thinking that I could reveal their secret identities.

  Nissa had become proficient with the terminal, but was having issues now.

  "What's the problem?"

  "Just went white," she smacked the side of the monitor, which was built into the desk. Really, it wasn't a desk as much as a desk-shaped computer, complete with built-in keyboard, monitor, and printer.

  I approached, "How long ago?"

  "Dunno, 'bout an hour?"

  "Forget it; I think I know the problem." I turned and headed through the hidden door and into the living area.