Authors: Lou Anders
The entrance hall was alive with the recorded gibbers, chitters, squawks, and caterwauls of the animal kingdom. Upon catching
sight of their approach, the redheaded teen at the reception desk quickly wrapped up his phone conversation, clicking off and greeting them with an annoyingly chirpy “It’s a great day to learn. Welcome to Science World. This month’s exhibits include Dinosaur Dynasty, a treat for children of all ages—”
“We’re here to see someone,” Terry cut to the chase. Then, glancing down at the receptionist’s name tag, added, “Dirk.” He smiled amiably—or attempted a close approximation thereof. “We’re looking for Muriel.”
“Muriel is finishing the two-twenty Gideon Sundback Zippermania tour. It’ll be wrapping up shortly in the blue room.”
“Thanks.” Terry started through the turnstiles. They locked, catching him mid-thigh and doubling him over. He grunted something that sounded like “Ngraw!”, then straightened and shot a look back at Dirk, who cheerily inquired, “Will that be one ticket or two?”
Marshall pulled out his wallet. “Two.”
“No, no.” Terry waved Marshall back. “This one’s on me. Two tickets.”
Dirk rang them up. “Two tickets, eighteen dollars each. That’ll be thirty-six dollars in total.”
“Thirty-six dollars!” cried Terry, clutching the lone fiver he had fished out of his pocket. “For thirty-six dollars, those dinosaurs better do a song and dance!”
“Actually, they do,” Dirk blandly assured him.
“Well, I don’t care! I’m still not paying that.”
“It’s all right.” Marshall stepped up. “I’ve got it.”
He paid and they proceeded into the boisterous main hall, passing a Parasites of the Human Body display and stopping to check out the Robot Zoo exhibit en route to parking themselves outside the blue room where Terry glowered, still bristling over the exorbitant entrance fee and, to a lesser extent, his failed attempt to draw the attention of the mechanical lemur. This, Marshall couldn’t help but note, was the same guy who had never thought twice about dropping five to six hundred dollars a night visiting Fortune City’s
upscale strip clubs. Marshall reminded him of the fact, but it did little to mollify his old friend, who indignantly countered, “Strippers are real, Marsh. Dinosaurs aren’t.”
He was tempted to call him on it, but ultimately decided to give his buddy a pass. After all, he had come through for him. According to Terry, he had asked around, exhausted his sources, and apparently come up empty. So far as anyone knew, Adam Virtue had disappeared six years ago; vanished without a trace. Some heard he was dead; others that he had moved to British Columbia, where he was enjoying a tranquil retirement in a senior community euphemistically referred to as “God’s Waiting Room.” Still others suspected that he was in hiding, biding his time as he tried to reassemble his surviving Terror Syndicate teammates for one final shot at infamy. But it all amounted to little more than groundless conjecture. He had pretty much given up when, late that morning, he received a phone call from an unidentified woman who wanted to know his reason for asking after Virtue. Terry hedged, explained he was acting as a go-between for an interested third party, and then, when pressed, fearful she was going to hang up on him, offered up Marshall’s name—to which she’d responded by hanging up on him. About an hour later, she phoned back and provided him with a time, a place, and a name.
The double doors to the blue room swung open and the Zippermania tour let out: schoolchildren, an elderly couple, a group of German tourists, and, bringing up the rear, a mid-fortyish, heavyset, bespectacled woman sporting the Science World navy blue suit and a name tag that identified her as
MANAGER: MURIEL HENRY
.
“Muriel!” called Terry as if hailing down a long-lost relative. “Hey!”
She stopped and threw him a suspicious look, trying to place the face.
“Terry Langan. We talked this morning.”
She coolly shifted her gaze to Marshall and asked, “You are. . . ?”
“Marshall. I’m an old friend of—”
“Of course.” She beamed, her aloofness evaporating. “Adam’s
looking forward to seeing you. This way.”
They followed her through a door marked employees only, down a narrow, carpeted hallway to another door with a keycode, through that door and down a flight of stairs to a bleak, gray, wide concrete corridor and up to a steel-reinforced door with a biometric lock. She pressed her meaty thumb against the pad. A corresponding click and the door swung open into a room that could have passed for a posh studio lounge, complete with sleek leather couches, kitchenette, and bar.
She led them in. “Adam will be with you shortly. In the meantime, make yourselves at home.”
Terry already was, taking up position behind the bar and fixing himself a drink. Marshall, for his part, was far more interested in the collection of framed pictures adorning the far wall. They offered a timeline of Virtue’s life: a teenage Adam at the state science fair being presented with the first-prize trophy by then governor Edmund G. Brown, a young and up-and-coming Virtue and his coworkers outside the head offices of military subcontractor Farrow-Marshall, Virtue and the rest of the Los Alamos research team meeting President Lyndon B. Johnson, Virtue as head of military R&D meeting with President Richard Nixon, a rare group shot of the Terror Syndicate, Donald Rumsfeld presenting Virtue with the Secretary of Defense Medal for Outstanding Public Service, Virtue being presented with the NASA Distinguished Service Medal by President Ronald Reagan, Virtue receiving the Presidential Citizens Medal from President Bill Clinton, Virtue the former national hero being led into court for his arraignment, Virtue on the steps of the courthouse addressing the press following his sentencing. Of course, house arrest barely slowed him down and, while Doc Arcanum may have ceased to exist, Adam Virtue continued to operate, quietly supplying the underworld high-rollers with everything from plasma gauntlets to cloaking technology until a heart attack finally succeeded in doing what the heroes and authorities could not: end Virtue’s criminal career.
“So, uh, what’s the deal here?” asked Marshall, finally giving
voice to the question he’d been nursing since the parking lot.
Muriel smiled, the crow’s feet around her bright green eyes deepening. “The bulk of the funding to build the Science Center came from private donations—and one investor in particular. In fact, if not for Adam’s continued financial backing, the center would have closed down ages ago. He’s been a great supporter of efforts to promote science education in developing minds.”
“That right?” mused Terry, not even bothering to look over as he took a sip of his cocktail, frowned, and added an extra shot of bourbon.
Muriel ignored him. “About five years ago, we were looking to complete some major renovations. Again, as he’d done so many times in the past, Adam stepped up. Over the years, he’s helped us immeasurably and never asked for anything in return. This time, when he did ask, we were more than happy to accommodate his small request.”
“Small request?” Terry swung around the bar, cocktail in hand, and dropped himself onto one of the comfy-looking leather couches. “This place is nicer than my apartment.”
“Adam greatly values his privacy.” She threw Terry a look that could’ve melted the ice cubes in his highball glass. “I trust you won’t do anything to jeopardize it.”
Terry put his feet up on the ottoman and hit the remote, turning on the wall-mounted flat screen. Then, realizing she was referring to him, he furrowed his brow and shrugged, clearly annoyed. “Who am I going to talk to?”
Muriel’s sour look turned cherry sweet as she swung her gaze back to Marshall. “It was nice meeting you, Marshall.”
Terry watched her go, then sniffed and redirected his focus to the TV. “What a bitch.”
Marshall barely registered the remark, focused as he was on a rare group shot of the Terror Syndicate. He guessed it was probably taken sometime in the mid-seventies, just before its members went their separate ways. On the left stood Funkmaster Fly, formerly The Groovinator, and, later, Crunk Daddy, who eventually tired
of his life of crime and turned himself in. He repaid his debt to society through the many years of community service that ended up endearing him to various inner-city leaders, stoking his successful run for a seat on the Detroit city council and, in time, the mayor’s office, where his two terms as The Motor City Maverick won him the love of his constituents, national attention, and a later career as a political pundit. Beside him stood The Gargantuan, six hundred pounds of corpulent fury, who fell on hard times after the team’s breakup and, following a series of arrests, briefly made a name for himself on the competitive eating circuit before being felled by a massive coronary in Bridgetown. To his left, arms folded across her iron and leather yoroi and sneering defiantly at the camera, stood Onna Buegeisha, who was reputed to have once fought Commander Liberty to a bare-knuckle draw. From what Marshall had heard, she was now managing a ladies-only bar in Oakland. Beside her and front and center stood the man himself, Doc Arcanum, a.k.a. Adam Virtue, his face concealed behind a first-generation virinium helm, looking surprisingly buff in his form-fitting midnight black exosuit. To his other side and practically leaning up against him was another masked teammate, the pixyish Silver Sylph, whose secret identity allowed her to fade into obscurity soon after The Terror Syndicate called it quits. To her left stood The Antagonist, the lovable rogue who achieved celebrity heights as “the villain no jury could convict.” He parlayed his charm and good looks into a small screen career, winning accolades for his performance as Matt Marvelous on the critically acclaimed HBO underworld series
Sinners & Saints
. Finally, standing on the very right and just a little off on his own was the aptly named Discord, another mystery behind his mask and cowl, whose rumored falling out with Doc Arcanum was said to have precipitated the team’s dissolution.
“Would you look at this,” muttered Terry. On-screen, CNN was showing aerial footage of the devastation in Atlanta. A rolling scroll at the bottom of the screen updated the grim statistics: 127 dead, 143 missing. “The fuck were they thinking kicking that hornet’s nest?” Quick cuts to various on-the-street interviews:
“If Mayor Williams thinks he can just up and walk away from this mess, he’s got another thing coming. The man ought to stand trial for mass murder.”
“The mayor was doing what he was elected to do: keep our streets safe from these costumed psychopaths. He’s not the criminal. They are!”
“Calling in the heroes caused things to escalate. They just made a bad situation worse.”
As if to underscore the point, the on-screen image switched to footage of Amazon Grace taking on Lady Draconia in aerial combat—buzzing each other like furious wasps, sweeping, circling, seeking an opening. Draconia loosening a double salvo from her arm cannons, dousing her opponent in a sustained stream of white-hot plasma. Grace, hovering in place, the bright blueness of her protective force shield deepening to a rich indigo, patiently biding her time. The intensity of the assault flickering and failing. Grace, dropping the shield and closing quickly, connecting with a thunderous right cross that sends Draconia streaking down to street level, where she collides with an antiquated five-story brick building, blowing out the entire first floor and every window in the place. The building teetering uncertainly, then lazily pitching forward to strike a facing skyscraper, remaining propped up against it like some hapless drunkard, vomiting the contents of its posh studio apartments onto the street below.
“That’s what you call a right fuckup.” Terry crunched down on a piece of ice. “Couldn’t leave well enough alone. Had to go and flex their goddamn muscles; make a show of it. Bunch of self-righteous assholes, the lot of ’em.”
Hypocritical bastards would have been more fitting, thought Marshall. Always playing to the media, their public acts of altruism little more than a bullshit patina glossing over the ugly truths—alcoholism, malignant narcissism, anger management issues. Their slightest charities aggrandized, their failings easily forgiven and forgotten, inculpable colossi towering over their lessers, imposing themselves and shattering lives with a casual indifference born of
self-affected ambition.
Suddenly, a click and hiss from somewhere behind him. Marshall spun around and watched as the far wall shuddered, retracted slightly, then slid aside with a sustained whoosh, revealing the not-so-secret hidden lab he’d been expecting, its modest confines packed full of high-tech gak. And, amid the impressive display of blinky light units and state-of-the-art weaponry stood the man himself, Adam Virtue, his once disheveled salt-and-pepper mop now a sleekly styled silver, his frame a little slighter, his face a little gaunter, but his eyes as bright and full of life as the day Marshall had first met him, some thirteen years ago, at one of Trudy McIntyre’s (a.k.a. Princess Arcana, a.k.a. Mrs. Decimator) monthly poker nights.
The memories of that evening came back to him. The way Virtue’s entry hushed the raucous gathering. The way his casual demeanor and folksy presence had quickly put them all at ease. The way he’d gone all in with pocket aces and lost it all. Alas, while Adam’s social skills were proficient, his poker skills were severely wanting, and by night’s end he owed Marshall two thousand dollars. “No problem,” Marshall had told him. “Pay me back whenever.” As if to affirm the confidence placed in him, Adam suggested Marshall give him a lift back home, where, in lieu of cash, he would be free to choose something from among the numerous items in his “workshop.”
Marshall remembered being struck by the shocking normality of that modest little bungalow in the upper-class suburban neighborhood. Not that he’d presumed some hidden lair built into an inconspicuous cave or a foreboding mansion more in keeping with the legendary persona, but at the very least a well-tended garden or a roof that didn’t look like it was in desperate need of a reshingling. Virtue walked in and set his keys and wallet down on a shelf beside—Marshall couldn’t help but notice—a blinking ankle monitor. “I’m going to go make us some coffee,” he said, disappearing into the kitchen. “Why don’t you head down to the basement and pick something out.”