Soon I Will Be Invincible (11 page)

So it isn’t easy to get in to see him. The house is screened by a line of oak trees and sits on a low rise, overhung by oaks and elms, a shadowy blot on the neighborhood even on a sunny day. No one mows the lawn. Dull silver spheres circulate endlessly through the grounds, a few feet in the air, watching. I come in high, buoyed by a little gravity generator, hovering level with the treetops and jamming every frequency I can think of. The house itself is a gabled Victorian monstrosity. I alight on the roof, crimson boots scuffing for a second on the sharp peak before I catch myself and swing down into an open window.

I’d heard he’d fallen on hard times, but seeing him is still a shock. He hasn’t been out much lately, and rumor has it one of his last experiments went badly—a mutation ray. This is the first time I’ve seen the results. His right arm ends in an insectile claw, and the skin on the right half of his body looks puckered and angry. At the interface, you can see where his body’s metabolism is fighting the effects of a halfway transformation.

I step down from the window and try to assume a dignified attitude. We haven’t met lately, and it occurs to me to wonder what he might think of me, arguably his successor in the realm of villainy. It’s odd to think that for once I may not be the evilest man in the room.

“Doctor Impossible. I heard you were out of jail.” His voice is a gasping wheeze emanating from the depths of the wheelchair.

“Baron Ether.”

He fingers his cane with his good hand, thinking. You never know what you’re going to get when you meet a fellow villain. People have different styles. I try to keep things collegial.

“I…I’ve always admired your work.”

“I appreciate that, Doctor Impossible. It’s nice to think one’s work is admired.”

We’re in a study of sorts, all books and globes of different sizes, some of great antiquity, painted with alchemical codes. There are framed newspaper clippings from the glory days, mostly London tabloids:
BIG BEN VANISHES; ELGIN MARBLES MISSING; PRINCE ETHER
?;
HYPNOTIZED QUEEN WEDS SCOUNDREL.
In a paparazzi shot, a young Ether (née Kleinfeld), diabolically handsome in evening dress, winks at the camera as he’s led away in handcuffs. His clothes are exquisite. Cars in the background date the photo to the 1930s. One wall is given over to a detailed android schematic.

He stands, painfully, and pretends to examine one of the globes. What he could be thinking about, I have no idea—this is a man who claims to have arranged the Korean War. A screen door bangs. Out in the real world, people are coming in for Wonder bread and Diet Pepsi.

Finally, he sits back down and wheels himself around to face me.

“What do you want?” he asks.

Steepling my hands, I reply, “Baron, I was hoping to confer with you on a technical matter.”

“You understand the conditions of my incarceration, I hope.”

“As well as you do.”

“Very well, then.”

“I need a power source. Very large output, very compact. I need it in three weeks.”

He sighs, and takes a moment before responding. “I’m a bit surprised you would come to me for help, Doctor. I understood you to be a fairly sharp individual.”

“You know I do robots. Robots take time. They’re looking for me.”

He goes on as if I hadn’t spoken. “I heard about CoreFire. You chose an infelicitous moment for your escape.”

“It’s not as easy as it used to be.”

“Did you do it?”

“What?”

“Did you do it?”

“I didn’t do it,” I reply.

“Do you know who did?”

“No. You?”

“No.” Glowing red eye.

“Portable?” he asks.

“Well, not necessarily. But time is a factor.”

He stands slowly, walks to the bookshelf, and faces it for a long while, but he doesn’t take down any books. I glance outside; the countermeasures I set up aren’t going to fool the Mechanist forever.

“I’m also looking for a man called Laserator. Do you know him?”

“Laserator. Wore a hat with a kind of…” He gestures vaguely.

“Mirror, yes. That’s him.”

“Retired. Bright chap, turned out to be a Harvard professor. They’re holding him up at McLean.”

He doesn’t turn around, but adds, “Have you heard from your friend the Pharaoh recently?”

“Not for years now. He’s out of it now. Why?”

“Just thinking.”

Another pause, then a slow shake of his head.

“I can’t help you. I’m too old, son. These things”—vague motion toward the window—“they watch me like hawks. I had my best chance, and it blew up in my face.” In the dimness, I can’t see his expression. “What are you going to do next? Another Power Staff? Going to make yourself invincible?”

“I’m going to move the m—” I start to lay it out for him, but he gestures sharply with the nonclaw hand.

“Don’t tell me! Don’t explain your schemes. You’ll depress me. You worked on that—what was it?—zeta energy? Whatever happened to that? Didn’t pan out?”

“Not yet.”

“Forget it, son. It never does. They always win, you know.”

He coughs and signals for his attendants, and I start to leave. Going to the window, clambering out, I must look like an overage leotarded Peter Pan. I don’t have a potbelly, but you can see where one might be starting.

I rise out of the shadows. The houses on their tree-lined streets fall away below me. I touch down a quarter of a mile away, in a parking lot behind an Applebee’s, put on my sunglasses, and start the drive home. I’m on my own then. I guess I always knew that.

CHAPTER EIGHT

EARTH’S MIGHTIEST HEROES

         I come home to Galatea’s suite and find a jumpsuit laid out on my bed, its colors the Champions’ yellow and orange. That’s how they tell me I’m a Champion. A New Champion, to be exact.

I sit down, hard. I’m a little stunned. No, a lot stunned. I close my eyes for a little bit. I guess something at the back of my mind expected my stint as a superhero to end pretty soon, one way or the other. Not this. This wasn’t in the script.

I sit for a while first just holding it, letting the high-tech cloth slide and pool in my hands. It’s stiff in places, suggesting embedded circuitry; the stitching is perfect.

I start to change into it but then stop halfway. Looking at myself naked in the mirror is like an aching feeling. You can see every place the damage happened. And you can see all the enhancements, hinted at when I’m wearing clothes, the complete design where woman’s flesh melds with plastic and metal. Appreciate the technological sea change that turned crippling injury into something else. What’s gone came back in silver and chrome, titanium and silicon, a map of catastrophe.

I try it on, gingerly. The costume is a one-off, cut to work around and complement my cybernetic elements, even the ports on my right thigh. In fact, it shows off the best of my bodywork. I’ve never been especially slender—even before the changes I was probably no Damsel—but when I try it on it fits me sheer and perfect, the way I’d always imagined. At the window, I take a moment to luxuriate, Manhattan spread out below me. It barely seems real.

This isn’t my usual sweatpants and tank top ensemble; it’s a real superhero costume, like Damsel wears. It’s unnervingly like being naked, but at least no one will mistake me for a robot.

I stop and look at myself in the full-length mirror, a machine-woman hybrid in a leotard. Female cyborgs are supposed to be wasp-waisted pleasure machines, but the fact is, it takes a lot of structural metal to carry a miniature reactor and this much hardware. I’m six four, taller than most men, with long thighs and broad shoulders. Even with my silver hair down, the impression is a bit more fearsome than traditionally beautiful.

The uniform isn’t especially modest, baring more skin than I’m used to around the shoulders and above the knees. But the patterning complements the silver and peach of my skin tone, and the effect is not unpleasant. You could even call it flattering.

I run a hand down my flank, feeling the cool metal and then the real flesh, thinking of how long it’s been. Not since the accident, and how long before that? I don’t even know. I only know I’m not a virgin. That’s all.

I look again, to see Fatale of the Champions. It’s hard not to feel a little proud of myself. I flip the hair back and do a Fatale pose for an imaginary photo shoot.

I hear scattered applause as I come into the kitchen. Someone whistles. There’s a cake with my name on it, and Lily’s as well. She joins in with a bemused expression. Everyone shakes my hand. Blackwolf explains: Apparently, the founding members met without us and put it to a vote, and that was it. I’ve got a new security clearance and an official ID.

“Is the costume all right? Damsel designed it.” Blackwolf plays host, passing out plastic cups of champagne.

“It’s perfect.” It is. And I’m kind of touched, thinking of Damsel spending so much time on her own, thinking of me.

“They say I have a knack for it. Look. You did good back there in the bar. I hope you’ll stay on with us.”

“I’d…yeah, I’d really like that.” Suddenly, I would. I empty my glass. Damsel did a lot for me when she asked me to join. Suddenly, I feel bad for disliking her.

“Look, I know we kind of come from, uh, different worlds.”

“I was raised normal, if you didn’t know. I didn’t get my powers until I was sixteen. Until then, I was the amazing little girl who couldn’t.”

“But…genetically, I thought…”

“I’ll tell you all about it sometime. The costume’s okay?”

“I didn’t realize it would be so tight.”

“You get used to it. I did.”

Everybody’s changed their look over the years, at least a little. Elphin still wears her suspiciously Pre-Raphaelite “traditional” costume; she’s added an armband to signify her Champions affiliation; Blackwolf hasn’t changed, but then he relates to his wolf getup in some way that I’m afraid to ask about. Damsel’s looks like a cross between her father’s and mine.

We’re a team, at least in the clothes department. Officially, it’s a response to the CoreFire situation and Doctor Impossible’s escape. Damsel herself makes the announcement that evening at a press conference, with the six of us standing behind her. Re-forming the team means notifying the city, the State Department, and the UN. The logo that had been dark for almost ten years glows from the Champions Building overlooking the city. We’re an item in late-night talk-show monologues. Calls and congratulations come in from other major superteams.

Tomorrow, we’re all going to Doctor Impossible’s island, ten hours in Blackwolf’s
Wolfship,
to fight a bona fide major villain. If they’re right, he’ll be there waiting for us, with God knows what wacky inventions at the ready. We don’t even have a scientist with us. Or CoreFire.

When the party breaks up, everyone goes their separate ways, to the rooftops or the gym. My eyes follow Blackwolf out; Lily notices and carefully cocks a silvery eyebrow, which I studiously ignore.

I linger for a while looking out at the city. I could rest up for tomorrow, but there’s something else I’ve been meaning to do.

Upstairs in the computer room, they have a modest library, including films. I meander upstairs, and, a little furtively, slip the DVD of
Titan Six
from its shelf. It’s still in the shrink wrap; I’m probably making a newbie mistake by even watching it.

The documentary came out the year after the team broke up, five hours of patchwork archival video, found footage, and FOIA-obtained government video. No one on the team agreed to be interviewed, but it purports to tell the true story of the world’s greatest superteam. It’s not quite that, but it’s something.

I don’t know what I’m looking for. To get to know CoreFire, I guess. They’ve all met him, and I’ve just seen a few speeches on TV. I wanted to be a detective, but I’m the only one here without a clue about the missing person.

I put the disk in the player, settle on the couch. A solemn voice-over introduces the three original members, young superheroes at the start of their careers.

Behind the opening credits, archival film from the early eighties shows Damsel’s first press conference when she was only sixteen and her powers manifested, her father and the rest of the Super Squadron beaming behind her, and then she’s zooming around at her eighteenth birthday party in a white jumpsuit. Then an early shot of her and her mother before she left Earth. The film has a yellow-tinted home-movie quality. There’s a gawky adolescent Blackwolf sweeping the opposition at the U.S. gymnastics finals, not out yet as anything but a precocious Rhodes scholar. And CoreFire in his ROTC uniform, clowning with his dorm mates only a few days before his accident.

After the obligatory origin stories, the talking heads kick in with the much-retold story of their first meeting. All three had, coincidentally, been in pursuit of a particularly nasty drug ring, which had gone to ground in the sewage system, and the heroes followed the same police tip underground on the same night. It must have been a strange encounter in the watery undercity, two men and a woman, all in masks, none over the age of twenty-four. Damsel, crown princess of the superhero world, her force field glowing green with power, casting deep shadows along the waterway. CoreFire had torn aside the gratings of another drain, lazily triggering half a dozen alarms. Blackwolf crouched concealed in a storm drain, night-vision goggles buckled on across the mask.

We’ll never know exactly how the conversation went, or how long it took. I don’t even know if they exchanged secret identities then, or later.

A man named Frederick Allen was deputy director for Metahuman Affairs at the time, and he gave the team sponsorship. He was hoping for a group of attractive, marketable young heroes who would prove both popular and pliable to U.S. policy recommendations. Everyone agrees the name was his idea.

Hence the Champions; when the team roster finalized, their ages ranged from twenty years (Blackwolf ) to over a thousand (if you believe Elphin). They were very young and a little dazzled by the attention. They accepted his offer and became an official government team.

Why? Damsel, perhaps because of her father; Blackwolf because he needed legitimacy, and maybe (although he’d never admitted it) superpowers on his side. CoreFire is harder to pin down. Because he’d wanted to be in the Super Squadron but it fell apart before he was ready? He had everything else, the perfect superhero life—the mighty powers, the fiendish nemesis, everything down to the writer girlfriend who always needed rescuing. He always fulfilled expectations, as if he’d never had to make a decision at all.

It’s nearly ten when Lily drifts in to watch for a while. She hovers a few feet behind me, holding a bag of potato chips. I can see her without turning around—I have attachments for that.

“I brought snacks. Can I watch?”

“Have a seat.” She didn’t get a costume, I notice, so I ask.

“I don’t wear clothes. We worked out some decals, like on a car window.”

“Well, congratulations anyway.”

“Thanks. You, too.” We shake hands awkwardly. On-screen, the heroes are thrashing their first bank robbery together; CoreFire turns over their getaway car, bullets pinging off of him.

“I like your moves.”

“Beating up Psychic Prime isn’t much of a move.”

“Meant against Elphin. It’s hard to land a shot on her. Trust me, I know.”

“It must be weird being on the team. After all that, well, other stuff.”

“All that villainy, you mean? It’s okay. Everyone wants to be the bad girl. Just for a while.”

A superteam needs certain things, the right mix of personalities, an unpredictable battlefield alchemy, a thing no one can predict, or duplicate. Two of them could fly and stop bullets; the third was the best detective and the best athlete in the world. But they needed to shore up the team.

Allen reached out to the superhero world. The most likely candidates lived under secret identities; some were off-world, or in the hospital. It took months to bring them all in.

The recruitment meeting happens in a meeting room in an anonymous office building in Washington, D.C. The filmmakers pulled original tapes and footage of the meeting. Allen has an overhead projector and he ticks through a list of points, crime statistics and potential off-planet threats, making his case. In front of him are eleven young superheroes, top talent, fully costumed and cocky.

The camera does a slow pan, and Lily leans forward to catch all the faces.

“Look at that crowd. They asked Leapfrog, can you believe that? And Anne de Siècle. What a bunch of also-rans! I should have gotten in while I could. God, we both should have.”

“Thanks, but I was six. And I didn’t have any of this stuff yet.”

She takes in the skeletal metal of my calves, upper arms. “That must have been some accident.”

“It was.”

Galatea is there, still an unknown—they don’t even realize she’s a robot. Blackwolf, cocky as ever, riding a wave of celebrity following a spectacular hostage rescue. Captain Kelvin is dripping water on the carpet, his cooling pipes rimed with frost. No Elphin yet, but Mister Mystic, glaring at the psychic Pontifex, later exposed as a fraud. Some of them I don’t know at all: a mustachioed man in chain mail with a sword at his side; a young man with a vampiric look who keeps well away from the windows; a woman in goggles, holding what looks like an Edwardian time machine.

Fred Allen cast his net wide, and the results look like a meeting of the board of directors in Candy Land. CoreFire floats at the back, obviously impatient with the selection process.