Origins of a D-List Supervillain (2 page)

Dad always said I should exercise more. This was my way of taking his advice to heart and wallet.

The control mechanism was a simple dial on a belt—cheesy I admit, but I’d only been at this two weeks so far...two delightfully profitable weeks. The hardest thing had really been making the decision to become ManaCALes. It was a play on manacles, which my setup sort of resembled. I figured turning the knob to fifty percent would get me through this building’s walls; constructed in the early eighties. The brick, like everything else in Mississippi, seemed substandard. At fifty percent, the cell and compressor combination would give me a dozen shots. No more than two to make a Calvin sized hole and one or two more for the security cameras.

The pressure stud on my wrists activated and I let the wall have it. This was one of those chain owned stores and, considering my background, I didn’t possess an ounce of sympathy for someone in an office somewhere looking out for their bottom line. Besides, someone would have to repair this wall and they’d have to hire a local construction company. In a way, I was creating local jobs. It’s not exactly Robin Hood, but I’m not in it to be some kind of legend. After all, who in their right mind would want to read a book about me?

“Add another count of grand larceny to my tally,” I said and stepped through the opening. “With a cloud of dust and a hearty ‘Let’s go get some silver’.”

A pulse from the left wrist-mounted force blaster took out the nearest camera and the right put a hole in the ceiling next to the other. My aim still needed some work. I corrected and finished the other off, before blowing open the locked areas below the display cases. Immediately, I started in on the trays where they kept the rings, necklaces, and earrings. The little light on my belt went off and it indicated that an alarm had been activated.

“Guess I don’t have time for the safe today,” I muttered and picked up the pace. I didn’t have a beef with Johnny Law and I’d rather keep it that way. It was an easy fifty grand. After my fence took care of it, the haul would be thirty, but that broke down to ten grand a minute. It was a good wage when you can get it.

Not wanting to push my luck, I hoofed it back to my nondescript white van with stolen plates, with my ill-gotten, but still-gotten, goods and called it a day. Opening the back, I tossed the two bags into the magnet surrounded cylinder and fired up the degausser.

“Did they really think I wouldn’t spot tracking chips? Nice try though.”

I climbed into the back and my “getaway driver” pulled away. Self-driving technology has existed for decades. I might not have the resources to be able to build my own robot yet, but I could rig up a laptop and some control circuitry. Throw in an inflatable sex doll with a wig and I had my own semi-autonomous van. I called her Tracy, after the woman who’d made it all possible.

“Too easy,” I said, removing my, mask, cape, harness and force blasters. “Maybe I should man up and try a bank job? One big score and I’d be able to finance my powersuit.”

Grabbing a can of beer from the cooler, since I wasn’t driving, I smiled and remembered all the stupid shit that I’d put up with before I finally made the right choice.

• • •

Thirty months before

“Mr. Stringel, I need to speak with you. Do you have a minute?”

Checking the clock on the wall, I answered, “There’re three hours left in the work day, so you can have all one hundred and eighty. Well, technically I need five to finish packing up my desk.”

“Very good,” the chunky white dude in the suit said. “Let’s take this down to my office.”

Tossing the going away card the team had given me at the luncheon into the clear plastic tub, I followed the man through the maze of cubicles in Restricted Area B. I caught Joe “the Tweaker” Ducie giving us an odd look and shrugged at him. The Aussie engineer, who endured countless green card jokes from me, mouthed something that looked suspiciously like, “Watch your back.”

Frowning, I tried to dismiss Joe’s warning. He was a decent enough fellow with a fine taste in scotch. Joe and I worked fairly closely together on
the project.
Joe’s job was Chief Diagnostician. He kept Lazarus Patterson’s mobile money pit running at peak condition, running a series of never ending checks, and having the nightmare of adapting all the prototypes everyone else came up with. His job did have one nice perk: he was the only person, other than
the man,
allowed to wear the suit.

My job was much easier and came with fewer headaches. I made stuff go boom. When I first got here, Ultraweapon flew into battle and used a plasma rifle as his main gun. While fairly cool, the boss kept getting it knocked out of his hands during a fight, usually at the most inopportune time.

My predecessor had tried his best with that rifle. His best effort was a magnetic locking system mechanism, which sometimes interfered with the weapon’s targeting and alignment during actual combat. Let’s just say he was let go after a rather messy hostage incident that left Promethia paying for the UN Secretary General’s facial reconstruction.

That’s when I was called up from the bullpen and given the go ahead for project force blaster. It required Ultraweapon’s arms be expanded, but my directed energy emitter was now built into the suit, making it considerably more durable and harder to knock out of alignment.

Lazarus Patterson, himself, came to my desk to thank me in person after his first fight with them. The guy was a colossal jerk, but even he was impressed by my design, said I’d be “going places.”

Fast forward six months and he was right.

My stroll down memory lane ended at an office, complete with an attractive secretary. I glanced at the name on the door to see who I was dealing with.

F. Randall Barton, Vice President Intellectual Property Division.

Okay,
I thought, imagining what his first initial stood for.
An I.P. Nazi. Nothing to worry about, Cal old buddy. You’ve got your robotic ducks in a row.

“Please sit,” he said and waddled around to the large leather high-back chair. My chair wasn’t nearly as impressive, or comfortable for that matter—one of those schlocky mind games, I assumed.

I decided to play it cool and not immediately demand to know what I was doing here.

“So, Calvin,” he began. “You’re leaving us.”

“Yes,” I said. The two week notice and the going away luncheon must have roused his suspicions.

“May I ask why?”

Being an engineer, I didn’t really care for beating around the bush. “I’ve been over this with the HR people, and I am sure you already know exactly why I’m resigning. Unless you want me to believe that people get to be division heads in this company without being prepared?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “You want us to attach your name on the patents for the projects you assisted on.”

“Assisted on? Exactly who was I assisting?”

He ignored my questions and blathered on, “It has been the company’s policy, since long before your employment began, to attach Mr. Patterson’s name alone to our patents. I can produce your signed employment contract, if you’d like?”

“Already seen it and I get it. He’s never going to allow anyone other than himself an iota of credit.”

Shaking his head while tapping his left middle finger on his desk, the man replied, “The policy is for your protection, Mr. Stringel. Suppose, for a moment, that your name is attached to a component on the Ultraweapon armor. You do realize the majority of our chief executive officer’s enemies have the mental capacity to execute a patent search. Have you ever met a supervillain, Mr. Stringel?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think I ever will either.”

“If we put your name on a patent, I can pretty much guarantee that you not only will, but when you do, it will result in your rather messy and painful death.”

“Fair enough,” I conceded, not very warm to the ideas of pain or death. “You’ve got a perfectly acceptable answer for why you won’t give credit where it’s due. And...that’s why I have chosen to leave.”

I didn’t want to add, “Like so many others.” I was set to be the fifth person in two years to leave
the project
and was reasonably certain the turnover would continue after I’d left this facility in the dust.

“Are you familiar with the Compton-La Guardia Core National Defense Asset Act passed last month?”

He had me there. My reading list usually consisted of tech manuals, game manuals, shit I found on the net, and letters to the editor that began with the phrase, “I never thought it would happen to me.”

“No, I am not.” In fact, the only vague recollection I had of it was hearing Joe make a joke about a law that he called, “Corned Ass.” To me, it sounded like something that involved diarrhea and bad Mexican food.

Somehow, I didn’t think F. Randall there would have appreciated our interpretation of this law.

“Then allow me to familiarize you with the parts that may concern you, Mr. Stringel. There are certain things that qualify as a National Defense Asset under Compton-La Guardia. The Ultraweapon Suit just happens to be classified as one of them.”

Processing his statement, I replied, “Well, since you’re not going to credit me as being part of the team that works on it, I don’t see a problem.”

“But I, and, by extension, Promethia do, Mr. Stringel. The law restricts foreign access to intelligence on National Defense Assets. You have unique knowledge of a particular asset. Therefore, Promethia will challenge your employment by any corporation that has a foreign bureau or offices in other countries.”

“Promethia has foreign offices, dipshit! You sell combat robots to nine out of ten governments on this planet.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “And we would have to submit and approve a waiver with the NSA if we wished to transfer you to a different division.”

“So, Ubertex can submit a waiver. I still don’t see the problem. I’m not going to be working in directed energy weaponry there.”

He leaned forward and leered at me. “But as the releasing authority, we reserve the right to reject any waiver for a period of time up to three years from your separation—five if Promethia files for an extension. You will not be employed by Ubertex or any other defense company for the foreseeable future.”

Taking a deep breath, it occurred to me that my row of robotic ducks might be lined up in front of a firing squad.

“All right,” I said. “Why exactly would you do that? I haven’t been a troublemaker. What’s with the thumbscrew treatment?”

“As you have no doubt noticed, you’re the latest person to leave your team. Mr. Patterson has expressed concerns about this technical drain on our company’s resources. Compton-La Guardia now gives us a vehicle to combat this, Mr. Stringel.”

That’s when the light came on in my mind. “You’re going to jack me over just so the rest of the team sees what will happen!”

“It did say in your file that you are a fast-learner,” F. Randall commented.

“New twist on the Company Store, eh? Digital style,” I said. “Last time I checked, Lincoln freed the slaves.”

“A good analogy, young man,” he replied. “However, President Lincoln also suspended portions of the Bill of Rights that interfered with his ability to win the Civil War, just something for you to consider.”

“We’ll see about that, you pompous bastard!”

The sack of shit shrugged, having probably been called much worse, and replied, “I suspect you will.”

• • •

After a slightly panicked call to the HR manager at Ubertex, and a “what can I do” conversation with Joe, I went back to F. Randall’s office and waited with my tail between my legs while his secretary announced me.

Opening the door, he didn’t bother bringing me into his office. “Yes, Mr. Stringel?”

As much as I wanted to wipe that smug expression off of his face, I sucked it up and said, “I’d like to withdraw my resignation.”

He shook his head. “Unfortunately, we can’t risk having a disgruntled employee working on the most important project in the company. I’m afraid we cannot return your resignation, Mr. Stringel.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Well,” he said, sounding like a father confiscating his kid’s college fund, “I’ll put it simply, in a manner even the brilliant, but naïve can understand. You’ve been judged to be the most expendable on the project. Everyone who is on that project statistically has one revolutionary idea in them. You’ve already delivered yours, Mr. Stringel, and we thank you for that. That law has been on the books for a month now and no one moved to stop you when you turned in your notice. That should be telling you something, but you still don’t get it, do you?”

Finding myself running out of options I said, “So, you’re just going to screw me over anyway. That was the plan from the start.”

“Someone needs to be the example, Mr. Stringel. We’ve decided it will be you. It’s nothing personal and I could say something along the lines of, ‘It brings me no pleasure,’ but that would be a lie. I take great pride in my work and I’m quite good at it. By the time I’m through with you, you won’t even be able to flip burgers at a fast food restaurant if they have a franchise in another country.”

Losing, and badly, at that, wasn’t something in my twenty-five year old vocabulary. I’d been a whiz kid and my talent had always kept me on top. I took a step at him, but stopped, figuring that it would make things that much easier for him. Turning, I saw the secretary with the phone already off the hook, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. She’d heard the entire exchange and would sell me out in a heartbeat for that son of a bitch!

Face it Cal, he’s got you by the balls,
I thought and walked back to my desk. Security was there to escort me out of the building, which was probably Barton’s plan, anyway. Even so, I walked out of there with my head held high. I was down, but I wouldn’t be out.

• • •

“I’m sorry, Calvin,” the voice on the other end of my prepaid cellphone said through the poor reception. “The judge decided not to hear our appeal. I wish I had better news for you, but it looks like it’s over for good.”