Authors: Ben Bequer
On the remaining wall was a modest chemistry lab that would probably get me into a lot more trouble with the Department of Homeland Security. The modified Heptanitrocubane alone would net me ten years at Utopia Prison. My chemistry kit was simple, a dry and water bath, several centrifuges and viscometers.
I wasn’t trying to split the atom here, just tinkering with the miniaturization of several different kinds of arrowheads. I had smoke, flash-bang, EMP and explosive arrowheads with various levels of explosive power. The most powerful thing in my arsenal was an arrowhead with an explosive charge so powerful; I called it “the Nuke.” I had a one tucked in my quiver, but it was for emergencies only. I was frankly afraid to use it, as I didn’t think I could fire the arrow far enough away from me to avoid the blast, and I could bulls eye an arrow at 300 yards.
Things would have gone differently if Atmosphero would have caught me with my gear, so the first thing I did after taking a shower was to get in full Blackjack gear.
I usually wore a black t-shirt with a nylon web duty belt that had three pouches filled with gadgets where a pistol would normally hang under my left armpit. I also had a heavy harness that covered my lower arms from my elbows to my hands, lined with Kevlar strips and large elbow pads, and thick fingerless gloves so I could handle the arrows easier.
Atop that, I wore a long black cape and cowl, like most of the other items, self-designed and built. The cowl, combined with a neoprene half-mask, concealed my face.
My lower half consisted of dark gray combat pants, and a pouch laden nylon web belt. Hanging from my right hip was the arrow quiver (I shoot lefty), and inside were my masterwork arrows, each more sinister than the next. I had hand-made arrow shafts and special heads with all kinds of different payloads.
Strapped to each of my thighs was a holster, but instead of pistols, I stuffed them with more gadgets in an easy to reach spot. On my knees are two heavy neoprene pads of my own design with an external hard-shell of flexible Kevlar, with two more side pouches on the outside of the knee for more stuff.
My imagination when it came to my gadgets was boundless, including a holo-decoy, mini-tank, localized EMP emitter, smoke and explosive packages of various sizes, and about anything I’d ever think of needing.
Finishing off the package were the boots, my own design since you don’t usually find a size 20s on the rack at a department store. I had made them by hand, lining the black waterproof leather with steel and Kevlar plates so they were heavier and sturdier than they needed to be. I had also built in several secret compartments for more stuff, and a short-burst rocket pack into the heel for a quick escape. They were massive and heavy, and I loved them.
I stood in front of my small shaving mirror and gave myself a look. Already the tension and anger were fading. The fear of being caught and the anxiety of another failure around the corner replaced with the calm confidence that nothing could stop me in this garb, and nothing would. I had an overwhelming feeling that a bright future was ahead of me if I gave it a chance, if I left the “Dale” persona behind.
If I became Blackjack.
Then dug into my haversack, pulled out one of my throwaway phones and dialed Sandy.
“Hey Dale, what’s kicking?” he answered with his usual greeting.
“Call me Blackjack,” I said.
Sandy laughed. “I like that, man. All assertive.”
I went right into it, “Sandy, enough fucking around. I want in.”
Sandy paused and I could hear his breathing on the other line while he mulled it over.
He laughed, “I don’t know, this gig is hardcore.”
“I want it.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Well, it’s funny because they were asking me about you. They like you a lot, I don’t know if it’s a good time for you.”
“Sandy, I want it,” I repeated.
“Okay, okay,” he said defensively. “I guess it’s meant to be. You know where Barbarella’s is?”
I thought a second. “I’m sure I can find it.”
“Go ready,” Sandy said, code for coming with all my gear. “Stand across the street, in the parking lot next to the liquor store. A car will pick you up.”
I looked at my watch and checked the distance online. It was over six miles away but at this hour traffic was murder. It would take me an hour or more by taxi, and only about twenty-five minutes if I ran it.
“I can be there in thirty.”
“Alright, get going” Sandy said and hung up.
* * *
That run gave me some time to think.
I went back and forth over and over whether to be exhilarated at the opportunity, or dreadful at the possibilities. Could Sandy be making a deal? Could he be turning me in? He was into a lot of dirty business, so he could be dealing me to the authorities. A super with a criminal record would go far to give him a clean slate.
But I had to go, to take the chance, even if I didn’t know what it was about. This was my one shot and I was ready for it.
My bow was unstrung in a six foot case that bounced on my back along with my full quiver of arrows. I even brought “the nuke.” Just having that arrow would put me in jail for twenty years. I also had my belt and boots, loaded with my gadgets and tricks, many of which were patently illegal.
The bow, quiver and the costume were irrefutable proof that I was Blackjack. It was only the lack of evidence, and Atmosphero’s stupidity, that had kept me from Utopia prison the first time around. Sandy had engineered that deal, and thinking about it now was making me more nervous. I’d see the light of day in fifty years if Sandy was betraying me.
Then I thought: what could they bring to stop me? If Atmo came alone, he was in trouble, and I think he knew it. No, he’d show with his crew, Rising Force, to minimize the damage to property and injuries to innocent civilians. Faced with a full super group, I’d have to back down, right? Yeah, they would expect me to hand over my stuff and do my fifty years quietly.
But I wasn’t going to go down easy. I didn’t care what they brought, Blackjack would be ready. Blackjack wouldn’t back down.
* * *
As I approached the meeting location, I started feeling a bit more comfortable.
Hyperion Avenue was bustling with rush hour traffic, and the sidewalks were replete with foot and bicycle traffic. It wasn’t isolated. And it was a terrible place for them to arrest me. I still kept my bow case handy, and my cowl and cape wrapped around my waist like a sash in case I needed to conceal myself quickly.
I jogged up lightly and bought a water bottle from a vending machine as I looked at my watch. The run had taken twenty-three minutes and thirty two seconds, over a linear course of 6.51 miles.
My watch was the Omega Seamaster Planet Ocean I had stolen, except highly modified. It was probably my most technically advanced creation. It had miniaturized a CPU, flash drive and HD display inside the shell. The display flashed and I swapped modes to input. A series of lights fired off from a sensor holo-emitter to the fleshy part of my forearm in the shape of keys from a keyboard. In this mode, my watch was a fully functioning wrist-mounted computer.
I spent hours upon hours working on my inventions, and in particular, my combat gadgets, for the sheer joy of coming up with new and interesting things to disable or otherwise defeat my enemies. But there was also a more practical reason. Sandy had wondered why I bothered with the bow and gadgets. Well, using this stuff allowed me to forgo my strength for most things.
Special magnetic armored car doors aside, my super strength could easily get me into trouble. A super like Atmosphero was made of the same stuff as me, so he could take a punch or two. But slugging a regular Joe, like a security guard or one of those cops from the park wouldn’t leave much for the medical examiner to identify. I may be the bad guy, but I didn’t want to kill anyone.
A brown suburban with tinted windows made a big hubbub on Hyperion right in front of me. It turned from the opposing lane, did an illegal U-turn mid-traffic, and came up beside me.
The rear passenger door opened and a woman greeted me. She was in her mid- thirties and while she was dressed conservatively, nothing could conceal her stunning beauty. Her hair was dark brown, almost black in a longer than bob-cut and parted to the left with a trail of bangs held seductively low and almost into her left eye. Her eyes were brown and serious, but with a hint of playfulness at the corners. Her full lips were pouty, and she pursed them in anticipation as I neared.
“You must be Blackjack,” she said, holding the door open.
I nodded.
“Put your things in trunk and get in,” she said, and the driver popped the trunk.
Once I had thrown everything in the back, I came around, sat inside, and the truck sped off.
“My name is Dr. Ellen Walsh,” she told me, reaching out her hand which I shook.
“I’m Blackjack,” I said, introducing myself for the first time to anyone using only my new name. I was in my normal costume, but without my cowl, cape and face mask.
It felt good.
She stared at me with a strange smile on her face, a confident smile, but she was for some reason unaffected by me, as most other women were. Dr. Walsh was also un-phased by my use of the hero name, it was okay with her. In this world, it was expected.
“What would you like a drink?”
“Whiskey on the rocks if you got it,” I said. “Beer if you don’t have that, and water if that’s all you have.”
She leaned over to the mini bar and drew out a bottle of Hankey Bannister 40 year-old Scotch whiskey in its original Glencairn crystal decanter. A smile crossed her face when she saw my expression.
“Skip the rocks,” I said, wanting to taste the true flavor of the world-renowned whiskey.
Dr. Walsh served me and herself then tipped her glass towards mine.
“A toast,” she said. I joined her glass to mine. “May you be in Heaven fifteen minutes before the devil knows you’re dead.”
I nodded and took a long swig of the whiskey, not bothering to nose it, and kept it in my mouth for a good five seconds before swallowing it and then taking a big, deep breath. I closed my eyes as its enticing aroma and alluring flavor enveloped me.
“Nirvana,” I said.
She giggled, “I prefer vodka, but this is very nice.”
“This is more than nice. This is whiskey that sits on your chest and slaps you around.”
Again that effervescent laugh.
“Sandy said you liked whiskey.”
“I thought I did, until I tried this,” I said having another swig.
“Let me top you off then.” She poured me another as she started her pitch, “so how much did Sandy tell you?”
“Not much.”
“He’s so secretive.”
“You know him a long time?”
“We’ve known him so long, you could call him family.”
“You said ‘we’,” I noticed aloud.
“Yes, Blackjack. I am part of an organization and WE have some opportunities.”
“Boy Scouts?”
She laughed and drained her drink, serving me and herself, more of the heavenly whiskey.
“We are far more nefarious,” she said through her laughter. “Though we have strict rules regarding that underage business.”
“Good,” I said, also laughing. “Because I was going to throw myself out of the moving car if you were associated with those freaks.”
She let the emotions cool a second and continued, “In truth, the WE is two people. My partner and I.”
“And who’s that?”
“That will come later. I want to assure you that I am at the highest level of management for this operation. I wanted to meet you in person, to see if you’re interested before we get into the details.”
I nodded, “fair enough.”
“Well, we are forming a team, with you as a core member. The team will have a series of initial tasks, quite menial at first, but necessary. Further tasks will increase in difficulty and-”
“For example,” I interrupted.
“Well, there are certain items secreted away in various places, vaults around the world. Separate, these items are useless, but together, and with the proper knowledge, they are...”
“Invaluable,” I finished for her.
Dr. Walsh nodded.
“Why do you need us to steal them? If you’re sophisticated enough to know what they are and what they can do, then why doesn’t he do it yourselves?”
She laughed. “You’re selling yourself out of a job, Blackjack. That’s poor salesmanship.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I can’t help wondering.”
“I know, forgive me,” she replied. “I am being too coy and your question is a valid one. The answer is simple; I am a scientist by profession and I haven’t the skills. My partner is indisposed of at the moment.”
“Jail?”
“Forgive me if I can’t say,” she poured me more of the whiskey. “That is the only caveat to this operation. As far as payment goes, we’re offering ten million dollars for each of the first four missions, then fifty million for the final stage. The overall time period covered should not exceed three weeks.”
“That’s not bad,” I said, wearing my worst poker face. This = made what I was doing look a joke, and would fund my operation for years.