Originally, his plan had been to sneak in through the air ducts. That was the way these things were done, right? As time-honored as the rope, right? But that was no good. Edwin had seen to it that the air handling system was too small, even for him.
The facility's weakness was a result of the same cautious nature that rendered the HVAC system impassible. For protection against the Cromoglodon, Edwin had arranged for a substation to be built on the facility so that electrical mains ran directly into the building. That way, in the event that the Cromoglodon became unstable, half of the city's power could be shunted directly into the creature’s brain. Klibanov and the other experts had been pretty sure that would kill him. But, really, when you are dealing with power like that, how could you be sure?
No matter how much engineering you did, you couldn't shrink power cables and still expect them to carry that kind of current. There was enough room left over for Topper to pass. Not pass gracefully or easily, but, lubricated by curses, he fought his way through.
Initially, Smiles had insisted on sending in a government team, but when it became obvious that regular-sized humans couldn't get in that way, Gus had growled, "Let Judas earn his silver."
Topper hadn't liked that. Not one bit. He wasn't anything like Judas. Jesus wasn't trying to kill Judas. The Twelve Apostles weren't trained, heartless killers. Although, Topper had to admit, he would have enjoyed Sunday School a lot more if the gospels had taken advantage of a few story notes like that.
At the end of the cables was a gigantic transformer. Even though it was only drawing enough current to power the building, it made a loud humming noise. Topper thought that the electrical field was making the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. It was either believe that or recognize the fear.
He reached up and slowly opened the door to the Cromoglodon's vault.
Dark and empty. But then, it was always dark down there. This was the first time Topper had been down there when he was sober. As he closed the door on the humming transformer, he was forced to admit to himself, he was scared. The noise didn't help.
Some terrible, intermittent sound was echoing through the downward-sloping tunnel. It sounded like rock grinding on rock. Or maybe bone grinding on rock. For a minute Topper imagined the Cromoglodon grinding his head against the earth, trying to tunnel his way free. No, that couldn't be right. He was strong, not impervious. He was that stupid though.
No, not stupid. Just simple, confused and, in a very sad way, innocent. Topper could still remember that the Cromoglodon had once been Barry. He had been strong and uncontrollable, but since when was that a sin? Topper could barely control himself most of the time. But Barry had crossed paths with Edwin Windsor. Now he was chained in a pit in the bowels of the earth. There was some kind of object lesson there, but Topper wasn't interested.
When Topper reached the door, he realized that the ominous sound was nothing more than the snores of the mighty man-child resonating through the polished concrete hallways.
Before he mounted the observation platform, Topper made sure that the security camera's red tell-tale light was off. It meant that the Feds were holding up their end. They had seized control of Edwin's network and were siphoning data off onto hard drives conspicuously hidden in a nondescript white van in the parking lot.
"I hate those vans," Topper muttered. He promised himself that when he was in charge, he would run things better. Somewhere along the way, he had given up on that dream. He had believed in Edwin, because Edwin was a better man than him. And now he was betraying him.
What had happened? How had it all gone wrong? Well, it hadn't all gone wrong. Topper was still here. Topper was still loyal to the Good Time. It was Edwin who had changed. Yeah, Edwin had betrayed him first. He had sacrificed the souls of everyone at the company to the long-winded god of policy and procedure. And worst of all, he had wanted Topper to follow the rules. No. Topper shook his head. No matter what else happened, that wasn't going to happen.
Sure, you had to have a few rules. Like Rule #1—don't screw up. But beyond that, Topper couldn't think of many other good rules. A man, a villain, needed to be free to act. To rely on his own initiative. Otherwise he wasn't a villain anymore. He wasn't a man, he was just workin' for The Man.
It had become too much. There were too many policies. Everyone was too fenced in. And even though Edwin talked about efficiency, that wasn't what he was about. Once upon a time, sure. But now it was about control. Maybe it always had been. And Topper knew about control. He'd been out of it his whole life.
When you got right down to it, you didn't tell a man what to shoot. Ya gave him a high-caliber handgun and let nature take its course. And just so long as he surprised you with a big fat wad of cash when he came back, what did you care?
Topper didn't want a business. Topper wanted his own pirate ship. Where men were men and women were plentiful. Where everybody got shares. Where you weren't punished for having an original idea, or panache, or your own friggin' soul. And most of all, where nobody would drive nondescript white vans. Everybody would get a pimped ride, even if it was stolen. Even better if they stole them from actual pimps.
But before any of that could happen, there was one unpleasant thing that had to be done.
Topper dragged a chair over to the control panel and stood on top of it. As he looked down into the pit, he could just make out the shape of the heavily-sedated Cromoglodon, or what was left of him, his chest rising and falling in time with the pleasant rumbling noise of his gigantic snores.
Topper felt sorry for him. He was, for all his monstrosity, an innocent. Having second thoughts, Topper cast about him for a line of thinking that would justify what he had to do.
The Cromoglodon hardly ever got to see the light of day anymore. In a way, Topper was going to do him a favor. And hey, it's not like Topper owed him anything. It's not like anybody had ever given Topper a square deal.
But, still, there was something about the Cromoglodon's soft, child-like snore that brought a tear to Topper's eye. Topper was sorry for everything that Edwin had done to the beast—and he would genuinely miss the Cromoglodon tearing through some rich company's facility because they wouldn't pay protection money. Shit, that had been the best part of many of Topper's days.
His hand shook as he lifted the plastic cover over a large red button marked “Shunt.” Topper followed the cable and IV tubes that ran from the control room into the back of the Cromoglodon's head. He watched the beast's chest rise and fall.
This was the price, thought Topper. But still, he didn't want to pay it. He thought about Agnes, cut low by that pointless fight between Excelsior (silly idiot) and the Cromoglodon. Sure, the silly idiot had started it to get back at Edwin, but if the Cromoglodon hadn't been there, Agnes would still be alive.
Still, this was not enough to let him push the button. The price remained before him like a bill sitting on a table. All he had to do was, pay the check, get up from dinner and go take over the world.
He thought of riches, he thought of power, he thought of how much better off everyone at Omdemnity would be with him running things. Still, his shaking hand would not drop. "Ah, Jesus," he sighed with a shudder that was dangerously close to a sob.
Then he thought of Edwin and the betrayal that this was. He banished the thought of his friend from his mind. Later, Topper would tell himself that it was the thought of what would happen to him if he failed in his coup that let him do it. But really, deep down, it was that he didn't want to find out what kind of a person he really was. Before self-knowledge could bubble up to the surface, he slammed his hand down on the button.
The Cromoglodon let out an unearthly wail as kilojoules of electricity were directed into his brain. The smell of burning hair and flesh filled the room. With a final, irrevocable snapping noise, the power went out and Topper was left in the dark with smell of murder, betrayal and electric chairs.
"Aw, shit," said Topper. "Now how am I gonna get out of here?"
For a man whose empire was crumbling down around him, Edwin was remarkably calm. He sat in the Omdemnity corporate jet, on his way back from an exceptionally trying negotiation for an insurance company in the Midwest. To pass the time he did something he had not done in many years. He read for pleasure.
As Edwin focused on the book in his lap, a volume of Thoreau, his back was to a wall of flat-panel screens. Nearby, one of the Adjustors sat before an open laptop and monitored all the things that might go wrong with Edwin's rapidly growing empire. They all went wrong at once.
Without disturbing his Master, the Adjustor placed a call and asked for a situation report. "What do they have?" He made a few notes on the pad in front of him. At the end of the conversation he said, "Wait for instructions," and hung up the phone. When he looked up from his writing, his eyes were drawn to a monitor on the far left. It was set to cycle through surveillance feeds inside the Omdemnity Corporate Campus. The fact that they were all dead was more disturbing than any images it might have shown.
"Sir," said Adjustor, "I hate to disturb you,"
Edwin, as serene as a monk, closed the book on his lap and looked up.
"We've had a…" the Adjustor blew air out, trying to stave off a flood of emotion.
Edwin turned to face the monitors and saw that the feed was out. Without looking at the Adjustor he said, "Calm yourself and report."
"Sir, what we know—wait, I've got a feed coming in from one of our units." The blank screen came alive again, showing a view of Omdemnity Building One. Police vehicles surrounded it and the scene was bathed in flashing lights. Confused actuaries and accountants were being rounded up and placed into transport vans.
"Ah," said Edwin.
The pilot's voice crackled over the cabin intercom. "We've been diverted to the nearest airport. I've got comm chatter on the military frequencies, they are scrambling an intercept."
"Very well," said Edwin as if these developments were all part of the plan, "it is time for me to disappear."
The pilot switched off the plane's transponder. It was an act that could result in his never being allowed to fly over any G-8 country ever again. But he was very, very well compensated. And this was why. This was it. What he had trained for and hoped would never come. His lips mouthed the prayer of all those who consign their lives to the wind, "God, I hope the wings stay on." Then he rolled the plane and pointed it straight at the ground.
Back in the cabin, Edwin endured the indignity of the five point restraint system that held him in place. This suit would surely need to be pressed, perhaps even replaced. How uncivilized. As they hurtled towards the Earth, he yawned to relieve the pressure building up in his inner ear. So tiresome, thought Edwin, so pointless, a world in which such games must be played. It’s a shame Topper can't be here, he thought, he would enjoy this.
As the plane leveled out perilously close to the ground, Edwin said, "Get me Topper," to the Adjustor, who was beginning to look a little airsick.
"Are you—urp—sure?"
Edwin's look answered all his questions and, in a few moments, Topper's voice came screeching through the phone.
"Edwin? Edwin! Are you okay? I just heard. Do you have any idea what happened?"
"Yes, Topper, I know exactly what happened."
"What? How? I mean, you do?" asked Topper.
"That's not important right now. I realize now that this was unavoidable and, as with all unavoidable things, necessary."
"Beanpole, are you feeling okay? The Feds just shut you down. As your lawyer, I'm tellin' ya, they've got warrants out. You're not safe anywhere. We gotta get a game plan together. Gotta arrange to bring you in safe so we can fight whatever this is without you getting hurt. Edwin, they're playing for keeps."
"Ah," said Edwin, "keeps, is it? My favorite stakes. No, Topper, I won't be turning myself in. I am going to ground, in the style and manner to which our good friend Dr. Loeb was accustomed."
"Good friend? What the...? You're going to Alabama? Edwin, pull yerself together!"
"No, I am not going to Alabama. Salvage what you can, Topper. I know you tried to warn me that this was inevitable. As shocked as I am, it does not change the fact -- you were right."
"What?!"
"Farewell, my friend," Edwin said.
On the other end of the call, Topper was overwhelmed by confusing and conflicting emotions. This was the first and only time that Edwin had called him "friend." It was all Topper had ever wanted. If there was one thing Topper was sure of at that moment, it was that he hadn't been a very good friend to Edwin Windsor.
All those years trying to pal up to him and now that he finally betrayed him, Edwin came around? Topper had no words to describe what he was feeling. He felt like his stomach was afraid the floor would run away and join the circus. Whatever this weird sensation was, he had felt it before, but it had been so long ago... ah, it was no good. Hours later he would realize that this rough beast was guilt, its hour come ‘round at last.
As his plane tore along the nape of the earth, eluding radar, Edwin calmly reopened his book and continued reading at this line: "A man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone."