 |
|
|
Post By The Hooded Hood with yet another standard double-sized issue. *sigh* Fri Aug 18, 2006 at 08:40:44 am EDT |
Subject
#283: Untold Tales of the Parody War: Life in Wartime | |
|
|
Next In Thread >> | |
| #283: Untold Tales of the Parody War: Life in Wartime Previously: The Parody Master’s invasion of Earth has been temporarily thwarted by a Celestian energy barrier; but the barrier is weakened by strong electromagnetic fields of certain frequencies that allow enemies to teleport through and attack. A worldwide programme of blackouts has again brought the threat under control, but has caused dangerous discontent amongst the population; discontent that provides opportunities for those who plot in the shadows. Sir Mumphrey Wilton has charge of the Combined Earth Defence Force, but those who know him grow concerned about the toll on the old man in the wake of the slaughter of his family. Those who oppose him sense his weakness and prepare for the time to strike. The Lair Legion continues to defend the Earth whilst struggling with their own concerns. For Al B. that includes the substitution of his son Cody for a daughter Kara and the kidnap of Miss Framlicker by his former lover Kinki the Conqueress. For Donar it is the appearance of a woman who seems identical to his lost wife Queen Annj. For Yuki it is a violent disagreement with Mr Epitome. For Trickshot it is the nature of his troubled relationship with masterspy Contessa Romanza. For Citizen V it is how to emerge as new ruler of the planet after the dust settles. And the Legion still has a considerable list of missing persons, including the Librarian, Visionary and his expeditionary force to Faerie, Liu Xi Xian, and the bottled city of Badripoor with spiffy, Banjooo, and the Juniors inside. Content Warning: This chapter contains some sexual references and insults.  In a darkened room in a colonial mansion one of the secret power brokers who shaped the world sat and explained how the world was going to be. “The Parody War is going very well,” Edward Gramayre told the men and women sipping old brandy in their wing-backed chairs. “Better in its way than the Freedom and Patriot Act. The war measures that Wilton is having to impose are giving us a lot to work with.” “Wilton is adamant that everything he legislates is temporary,” Xavier de Questillada, senior U.N. administrator complained. “When we tried to modify his security precautions to develop a permanent international identity card system he threw the file box at Dr Perrault.” “What Wilton intends and what actually happens can be two very different things,” Gramayre replied. “He has already registered more metahumans to his cause than we managed to identify through SR 1066. And they’re coming willingly. How goes our version of the Ultizon obedience nanobot, Rikka?” “We’re not there yet,” Dr ulz Hagen admitted, “but once we crack the technology we know exactly who to apply it on, and how.” “Innoculations,” snorted five star general Buck Barker. “Just a precaution, in case the Parody Master uses chemical weapons. Nothing to worry about.” Gramayre nodded, satisfied. “War brings opportunities. The old alliances are broken, the power bases shifting. The watchmen are all looking outwards, with no time to guard their backs. This is a time when bold men with bold objectives can change the world.” Gregory Vassilych looked up from the dossier in front of him. “What you propose here is ambitious, Gramayre. But then, the Shadow Cabinet has always been ambitious. The Secret Masters have lost their grip a little of late, so now they intend to close their fist again on mankind’s destiny?” “We need the age of heroes,” Gramayre admitted, “for as long as the Parody War must be prosecuted. Either they will win an impossible victory, or we will need to step in and deliver them up to negotiate a separate peace. In either case we are prepared.” He nodded over to the only person in the room whose chair was set back in the shadows. “We’ve called Mr Wexford out of retirement especially.” The man swathed in hat and overcoat rustled unpleasantly as he leaned forward. “Heroes scream just like everybody else,” he confided in a hoarse whisper; and said no more. “Rumour has it that you have also awoken the Bonewalker,” Jethro Screwdriver noted. “Rumour is correct,” Edward Gramayre smirked. “I do not intend to take any chances this time. Once Wilton and his ilk have served their purposes they are going down.” “Wilton remains a problem, though,” Vassilych pointed out. “However you subvert his war measures he continues to hold up progress to a world of true free market enterprise.” “A world united under the right leadership,” added Rikka Ulz Hagen; she didn’t need to add who that leadership should be. “Wilton is one tired old man,” Gramayre answered. “I killed his heart when I killed his daughter. He’s clinging on to sanity and life by the merest fingernail, holding to his job to keep him getting up in the mornings. He’s ageing visibly, weaker and tireder every day. It will take so very little to remove him when the time comes.” “Isn’t that what you said when you sent Black after him?” Screwdriver asked. “Black was expendable. He did his job. Wilton is a broken man, looking for reasons to avoid death.” “He still won’t pass internment laws,” a senior CIA man complained. “We need to be able to hold people without trial, interrogate them without limits.” “We need an enforced draft,” the general added. “Not each nation deciding for themselves when and who to call up. An international mobilisation, compulsory.” “And proper trade incentives,” Obidah Blott argued. “Industrial resources should be properly controlled, entrepreneurship properly rewarded. Has Wilton agreed to the annexation of oilfields and compulsory labour for conscientious objectors yet?” Gramayre held up his hand. “All these things will come to pass,” he promised his guests, “at the proper time. Already we have travel limitations, covert monitoring, access to bank transactions. More will follow, slice by slice. As the war bites harder so our grip grows stronger. And when the time comes we have the right person in place to activate the master stroke.” He raised his glass at the guest opposite him. “Don’t we?” “Absolutely,” said Citizen Z, raising her glass back to him. The sirens went off across the greater Paradopolis area. TVs and radios all gave a warning thirty second bleep, indicating blackout was coming. Then the power grid was shut off, plunging two million homes and businesses into darkness. “It’s better than a permanent blackout,” admitted Al B. Harper, the archscientist whose calculations and sensors were being used to predict when the electromagnetic conditions were getting close to those that would weaken the Celestian barrier and allow the Parody Master’s legions to jump to Earth, “but I wish I could find a way of refining the system more. Something that predicts the forming weakspots more accurately, or with more notice. Or if I could develop a large-scale generator that didn’t weaken our shield.” Sir Mumphrey Wilton lit one of the old gas mantles he’d had reinstalled in the Lair Mansion. The flickering light danced across the faces of the men in the Meeting Room and over the portraits of the Legion founders on the walls. “We’ll survive,” the eccentric Englishman said. “Crisis brings out the best in some people.” “And the worst in others,” answered Mr Epitome. “We’re still having food riots in Cairo, in Hyderabad, in Moscow. Chile and Uganda are still under martial law.” “Sure, but in other places folks are pitching in to help each other,” CrazySugarFreakBoy! argued, sitting cross-legged on the meeting table. “Like on my dad’s reservation, where the metahumans who took refuge there are out doing delivery and rescue services now. And for every report of looting or rioting we’ve got another of everyday folks being extraordinary heroes.” “It was a tough choice to impose the blackout,” Hatman admitted, “but it seems to be working. In the week before we started shutting down power supplies when the dimensional tides were running against us we had almost seven hundred parody forces incursions. In the three weeks since the blackouts we’ve only had eight incursions, and five of them seem to have been units hidden from before we imposed the ban.” “And one of them at least was caused by a deliberate attempt by Parody Cultists to fire up a gateway,” added Mr Epitome gravely. “We still don’t have the powers in place to proactively prevent those idiots from selling out this planet.” “Arrest without evidence, incarceration without trial?” CSFB! shouted, making a Nazi salute at the paragon of power. “We’re fighting to save the world, not turn it into some right wing fascist paradise.” “You can treasure your bleeding heart liberal sentiments all you like,” Mr Epitome countered, “but see how many freedoms humans get when the Parody Master has been let in by one of those fanatics you decided to give the benefit of the doubt.” “Haven’t we heard this argument before?” Al B. complained, feigning a yawn. “About a million times? Over breakfast.” Sir Mumphrey took the cue. “It’s a hard line to draw, chaps,” he conceded. “Nobody’s happy restrictin’ freedoms or compelling conformity. Sometimes those things are necessary for the longer good. Don’t like it. Have to do it. But only as much as we have to, and only for reasons of life and death.” “The Legion’s back up to full strength,” continued Hatman. “Trickshot’s back off the sick list after that thing with the warbot in Dusseldorf. We’re hoping to get a couple of new LairJets off the Bautista Enterprises production line by the end of the week. I’ve sent Manny over to Annapolis to liase with Major Standard about his Terminus Team programme. Still no word from Vizh, Yo, or the Librarian though.” “I’m working on getting safely past the Celestian barrier,” Al B. promised wearily. “I can’t find out what happened to Miss Framlicker otherwise, or track down Kinki about Cody.” “But Kara’s cute, though,” CSFB! consoled the confused father. Al winced. “No further leads on the missing Juniors or Miss Xian, I suppose?” Mumphrey asked. “The Shoggoth’s on it,” Hatman answered. “He says so far he can’t tell us where they are.” Mumphrey sighed. For a moment he looked very old and small. Then, becoming aware that others were watching him, he gathered himself up. “Very well. Best we carry on, what? Convey my thanks to the troops. We’ll brief again tomorrow at seven. Carry on.” Marion Nightshade lived in a small bohemian flat in the unfashionable end of Tiny Greece, a walk-up made brighter by the addition of window boxes and planters on the rickety fire escape in defiance of the landlord’s instructions. She answered the door to Dancer immediately, recognising the raven-haired Legionnaire from her charity fitness videos. “Hi!” Sarah Shepherdson smiled. “Can we talk?” “Is this about the restraining order?” Marion asked. “Because if so…” “We just need to talk. Please.” The artist reluctantly let her visitor into her small apartment. The floor was covered in boxes of beads and wire that were used to create the New Age jewellery that Marion sold in the Student Quarter market. “Sorry about the mess,” she said. “Hey, you should see my place,” Shep reassured her. “There are tribes of pygmies living in the dark corners of my living room.” “Elderflower tea?” Marion offered, resorting to the familiar to get over the fact that she had a superstar celebrity in her flat. “Or beer?” “I’ll try the tea, please,” Dancer replied. “I’m trying to diet.” Marion looked the lithe superhero up and down. “Why?” Dancer smiled sheepishly. “I really don’t want villains catching me by my love handles.” She watched as Marion lit up a small Bunsen and heated up a kettle. “I need to explain what this is all about.” “What? Your team member Donar harassing and terrorising and assaulting me?” “Well, that too, although to be fair to the big guy there were mitigating circumstances. But mainly I need to find out if you’re really who you think you are.” Marion snorted. “Or if I’m Donar’s wife? Did he really expect me to fall for that line?” “Um. Yes. Only a real gullible idiot would fall for that one,” Dancer mumbled evasively. “The thing is, Donar really is an Ausgardian demigod, a mythical being from a land of mythical, er, myths. And recently his land was stolen by the Parody Master, and his Queen with it. He’s been hunting for her high and low for months.” Marion handed over the steaming mug of purple tea. “And now he’s snapped?” she suggested. “Well, you do match Queen Annj’s physical description,” Dancer admitted. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever actually been to Wjodenheim?” “I’m pretty sure I’d remember that,” the artist replied. “I don’t even have a passport.” “You do have a full background and history though,” Shep told her. “We checked. We wanted to know if you really were a normal person or if you were some kind of trap, maybe a shape-shifter or demon or something. Or maybe you really were Queen Annj with some kind of spell-cursed amnesia.” Marion scratched her head, tousling her midnight locks. “How can I possibly prove I’m not some mythical queen from some pretend land who’s not married to some incredibly huge hairy Viking superhero?” she asked desperately. Dancer smiled. “Glad you asked. What we’d like you to do is to come over to the Lair Mansion. When it’s convenient. We’d like you to sit down with Donar – chaperoned – and talk it all through with the big guy sensibly. He’s pretty upset about all of this.” “And when he’s upset he breaks things,” Annj guessed. “Well usually, yes. But in this case he’s just… quiet. You can’t resist those sad brown eyes.” Shep leaned forward. “See, the thing you have to realise about Donar is that he’s… well, about eight inside, I guess. But he’s the most loyal, honest, truest eight you could ever meet, a real hero in the very best sense of the word. He loved Annj more than I can say, so if there’s any way you could help him to actually find her before the Parody Master does something awful to her…” “You’re very persuasive,” Marion admitted. She bit her bottom lip as she struggled with herself. “One visit. That’s it. I answer his questions then I’m gone.” “Thanks,” Sarah grinned, jumping up. “Oh, and that dripping tap you happen to have in your bathroom? I know a great plumber. I’ll send him round. Legion’s treat.” Marion sighed. “I just know I’m going to regret this…” Even hard-living all-action cyborg private eyes have to wash their underwear once in a while, but Yuki Shiro was slightly embarrassed to be caught doing it late that night in the Lair Laundrette. She felt her image was tarnished. Fortunately it was only Kat Allen, heading in with a bag of whites after her long shift of monitor duty was done. “Glad to catch you,” she told Yuki. “I’d been hoping we could chat.” Yuki had been actively avoiding Katarina. Not only had the young weaver accidentally buried her alive once but she was sleeping with Dominic Clancy, Mr Epitome. “Chat about what?” Yuki asked suspiciously. “What do you think? About Dom, of course.” “Did he send you? What does he want now?” Kat shook her head. “Of course he didn’t send me. He’s Mr Epitome, the paragon of power, stubborn as Mount Rushmore and about as flexible. I’m here on my own behalf.” Yuki read Kat’s body language: uncertain, troubled, nervous, and trying to cover it. “What is it?” she asked, perching on one of the tumble driers. “Well, I saw the mission transcript from North Korea,” Katarina Allen began. “The one where…” “Where your boyfriend threatened to kill me?” “Where you argued,” Kat conceded. “And I know there’s been… problems between you before.” “Like when he tore my bike apart, then tore me apart?” “You attacked him before he fought back, Yuki. But I’m not here to make excuses for Dom. What he sees as fraternity pranks and what he sees as defending his country you see as bullying and terrorism. I’m here to talk about what you don’t see.” Yuki found herself automatically switching to detective interview mode. “What am I missing, then?” Kat blushed and looked away. “Why I’m with him,” she answered. “While I can be. Why I… love him.” “I had wondered,” Yuki answered before she could edit her comment. “I mean, you seem so normal. What could you ever see in that…” “I need to tell you,” Katarina replied, “In confidence.” “Tell me.” Kat moved in closer. “Dominic is a very complicated man,” she began. “He looks like a simple one, but that’s his shell.” She touched Yuki’s hand. The cyborg’s flesh felt warm and soft just like a human’s. “You have your shell, he has his. Both are deceptive.” “So he’s really warm and soft and fluffy inside?” the P.I. asked sceptically. “Inside? Yuki, inside Dominic is a hero. Inside he shines.” “This is very deep inside then.” Katarina’s gaze sought out Yuki’s eyes. “I mean it. I’ve seen what he’s like, stripped of the political crap, stripped of the guilt over hard decisions, stripped of the… the stuff he’s had to do to do what he thinks is right. Back on Apocalyspe, when he had no memory… That’s when I fell in love with him.” “And that wasn’t just a survivor’s shock reaction to being rescued?” “He’s a good man, Yuki. At his core, he’s pure good. Like you. Very like you. But he’s been so kicked about by the world, he’s paid so much of himself to do what’s right, he’s gotten… dirtied. Scabbed over. Wounded. And that makes him…” “A prick?” suggested Yuki. She saw Kat’s face and relented. “I don’t imagine he’s staying awake nights worrying about our last clash.” “No, he’s not,” admitted Kat. “It’s just one more gash on his heart, and what’s one more? But it matters to me. You and him, you should be more than reluctant allies. You should learn to go past the, the past.” She clung to Yuki’s hand. “You’re supposed to be the smart detective. Well detect him. Get through to him.” “You’ve given this a lot of thought, Kat.” The weaver nodded. “That’s because while Dom is saving the world, he needs somebody to see about saving him. That’s my job. Me and his friends.” “Does he have any friends?” Yuki asked. “I mean, at first I thought with me being the newbie in the Legion and with Epitome having all the important connections that if it came to me or him getting booted then I was out of the door faster than a bad date on a Sunday morning. But when the mission tapes got reviewed CSFB! and Hat and CV and everybody was on my side. Nobody seems to really like him.” “From what I can see, with very few exceptions like Glory, the Lair Legion are the closest thing Dom has to friends. Think about that.” Yuki thought about it, then realised that the same might be said of her. “Oh.” “So what I need is for you to find a way to be his friend, Yuki. Please. He needs someone who can do what I can’t, who understands the things I don’t. I can’t save him alone.” Another thought occurred to the cyborg P.I. “You said you’re with him while you can be,” she remembered. “What did you mean?” Kat looked away now, withdrawing her hand and folding her arms round herself. “I know I won’t have him forever,” she confessed quietly. “He’s a hero. He’s too big for me. He’ll have to move on. I don’t see us ever settling down with a house and picket fence and kids in the yard. He can’t have kids anyhow. He probably doesn’t age.” He swallowed hard and tried to control her voice. “He’s probably going to die fighting this war.” Yuki felt her stomach lurch at the resigned quiet bravery in Katarina’s confession. “Okay,” she agreed, against her better judgement, ignoring the screaming warnings in her head that this was a stupendously bad idea. “I’ll try to see him differently. Try to reach out. Leave it to me.” Alice White knew she’d made a mistake the moment she let the slick government recruiter talk her into signing the paperwork. “It’ll be fine, Alice,” Rex Regent had grinned at the Widget with that charming winning smile. “I’ve seen your charge sheet. The Widget hasn’t really got much of a criminal record. A few charges outstanding for minor misdemeanours that haven’t even come to trial yet. Joining the TT programme can make all of those just go away. Plus you’ll be serving your country and your world and getting a handsome salary for it.” The mistake became more evident the day she’d arrived for basic training and met her top sergeant. “I am the Captor,” he screamed at the nuggets. “But you can call me sir or God!” Now, six weeks later, she knew what the TT programme was: Terminus Team, for the rehabilitation of supervillains through their deployment in suicidal combat missions too dangerous to risk valuable superheroes. Major Standard welcomed them to the Annapolis base and led them in to orientation past the wall of honour that showed images of those who had fallen in service of the team. It was already crowded. “The tactical situation is fairly stable just now,” Major Standard told them, standing in front of an impressive Powerpoint display that showed recent incursions of Parody forces through the Celestian barrier. “Right now our efforts are concentrated on rapid response to new incursions and on proactive investigation to prevent other deliberate gateways being opened. Later, as the barrier decays, we will be called upon to defend rather more possible intrusion points, and to prepare for a counterassault against the enemy, possibly offworld or offplane.” “I want to go home now,” Alice whimpered to herself. “You can go home with me anytime,” the handsome man next to her offered with another charming smile. He was another new recruit, but he sat back in his chair and stretched out his feet with the assurance of an old hand. The Widget had learned how to rebuff the advances of slobbering male supervillains long before this. There was something about the supervillain psyche that reacted to a skin-tight gold jumpsuit. Alison was surprised to realise that she was actively considering her co-worker’s offer. “Pay attention, Exemplary!” Major Standard shouted. “You’re not a big-time G-Man here, so you pay your dues like every other criminal!” “As you say, Major,” Exemplary smirked. “As you command, of course.” The name sent a spike of fear down the Widget’s spine. “Exemplary? You… you’re the one who beat Joe’s old aunt April to a pulp, put her in the hospital!” Exemplary shrugged. “And you’re ManMan’s cute little ex-girlfriend,” he smiled back at her. “I’m looking forward to a close working relationship with you, Alice.” “Okay, Parody Cultists,” ManMan told the collection of people gathered together round the home-made electromagnetic wave generator in the Tampa warehouse. “You’re dirt dumb so I don’t imagine you’ll be smart enough to come quietly, but you could surprise me and just surrender.” The nearest cultists dropped the power cables they connecting to create a conduit for the Parody Master’s forces and reached for their guns. “Evidently not,” Ebony of Nubilia noted. “Still, this group seem to be relying on technology not magic.” ManMan raced in at the one taking the safety off the sub-machine gun, sliced Knifey through the weapon’s barrel, and punched the cultist in the face. He nearly broke his hand. “Aagh!” he gasped as the cultist replied with a hammer-blow that rattled his ribcage. “What the…” “Not human,” Knifey warned urgently. “Throw me!” ManMan put the talking knife dead centre through his assailant’s forehead. The cultist fell backwards in a shower of sparks. “What the...?” Joe repeated. The other dozen cultists were moving forward now, blocking the retreat up the stairwell with inhuman speed, spreading out to surround him and Ebony. “Metal under the plastiflesh,” Knifey observed. “Joe, these are robots!” “Parody cultist robots,” sighed Ebony. “Wonderful!” The high priest’s face twisted into a triumphant mask of hate. “And now you die for the glory of the Parody Master!” Ebony touched the amulet round her neck. “We need help,” she said simply. The gem in the old necklace seemed to burst outwards like a dish of milk boiling over. The Manga Shoggoth poured from the jewel and swelled up before her. “As you require,” he gurgled before falling on the cultists. “How many high priests is that now?” Knifey wondered casually as the winded bruised ManMan retrieved him from the dead robot. “I don’t keep score,” Ebony admitted. “I’m more worried about this. These robots.” “The PM has worshippers all over,” Joe Pepper pointed out. “Makes sense some of his sympathisers would be urban robots.” “You do not understand,” the Shoggoth noted; it was a fair bet that humans didn’t understand almost anything the Shoggoth said or did, but in this case he clarified. “This generator and conduit are formed of cannibalised robot parts. These worshippers were giving of their own substance to bring forth their master.” “The robot population of Earth by definition have their own power generators,” Knifey realised. “They can’t be shut down by a general blackout. Any group of them could get together and try this again!” “The Machine Shop were already working with the PM on SR 1066,” adduced ManMan. “Are you saying the entire robot race can’t be trusted?” “He’s saying,” Ebony frowned as she looked around at the latest attempt to sell out the Earth, “that we have a huge moral problem.” The crowds cheered Trickshot as he got off his Flying Ass and went into the elevator of the Twin Parody Tower. A few folks tried to crowd into the car with him but he herded them back out. “No autographs just now, kids. Br’er Trickshot’s kinda busy.” “You give that Parody Master one for us, Tricky!” “You’re doing just fine, hero!” “Keep up the great work!” “Here! Take my phone number!” The doors closed and the arrogant archer jabbed the button for the top floor, the revolving restaurant. As the car rose he slipped off his hood, folded his bow, and added a clip-on tie to his green and purple ensemble. By the time to doors opened again he looked like… a thinly disguised carny performer in a gaudy bizarre Robin Hood suit trying to blend in amongst the formally-dressed glitterati of Paradopolis society. The sirens sounded warning of a blackout. Trickshot was glad that he’d make it to the top floor before the power went off. Discreet waiters had already placed elegant candelabras at the tables of the diners. Across the city the lights went out again. “Thank goodness for the Parody Master,” Contessa Natalia Romanza noted as Trickshot slipped into the private booth with her. “You’re not exactly the ideal date for a spy trying to keep her face out of the newspapers.” “Aw, they’ll all be lookin’ at me, Talia,” he assured her. Then he looked at the lady beside him. “Or… or not,” he admitted as he saw her decked in her tasteful decolletaged elegance. “Or not,” she agreed. “Babe, you always look like a million bucks,” Carl Bastion told her, “but tonight you look like a zillion.” The Contessa shook her head in wonderment. “There is clearly something wrong with me that I like you giving me such compliments,” she admitted. “But then, that is why we are having this talk, is it not?” “There’s stuff we need ta clear up, yeah,” agreed Trickshot. “Assumin’ that this time you’re answerin’ questions.” Natalia Romanza checked the wine list then ordered in perfect French. “Red Bull,” Tricky told the waiter without glancing at the card. “And natchos.” “I was hoping you might answer a few questions yourself, Carl,” the masterspy told him. “Trada ya,” Trickshot grinned. “And I get first dibs.” The Contessa considered this. “Ask,” she agreed at last. “Okay. Way back at the Transworlds Challenge, at that big party, you laid one heckuva kiss on me then walked away. Why?” “Because I wanted to kiss you,” the Contessa answered, her eyed sparkling with devilment. “Perhaps I wanted to know what it was like. So I did. My turn.” “But…” “My turn. Why did you pursue me before that? Why such interest in the woman who murdered your counterpart from this world?” “You didn’t murder this world’s Carl Bastion, Talia. You know it’s more complicated than that. You didn’t kill him and you didn’t deserve what happened when he came back as an undead ta torture you.” “That doesn’t answer my question.” “Hey, you’re a fine-looking babe, and I dig you for all the reasons the Carl Bastion you married dug you. And I guess I’m the kind of guy who loves a challenge, and let’s face it princess, you’re about the Mount Everest of classy dames.” “So you desired me.” “We desired each other,” Trickshot answered. “You know it, toots. When you went to bed with returned-evil-this-Earth-Tricky Deadshot you thought you were finally doin’ the horizontal with me.” The Contessa flinched. “We all have moments of weakness.” “Plus, I chased you because… well, I feel somethin’ fer you, Talia. I dunno what exactly. Maybe it’s love. I wouldn’t know whut that’s like. I just know I can’t get you outta my head, no matter what.” Natalia Romanza seemed to ponder that. It was a new idea that somebody might love her for herself, rather than what she pretended to be with such consummate skill. Trickshot had seen her at her very worst – yet he still followed her. “You plunged into the timestream to rescue me, took on impossible odds,” she accused him. “What for? What did you expect?” Trickshot shrugged. “Ya expect me to have thought that out? I’m not real big on that, darlin’. You needed me, you called ta me, I came. End of story.” But it wasn’t the end of the story, was it? “Just like that?” the Contessa mused. “Pretty much. My turn again.” He leaned forward. “We got all kinds of history between us, princess, good an’ bad. Complicated by you bein’ the widow of my this-Earth self, an’ betraying him to his death, then repentin’ and becoming one’a the angels, and him coming back as undead fer a bit, an’ me being a horse’s ass as usual. But when the chips was down I was the guy you called for. That’s gotta count fer something.” “I suppose so,” conceded the Contessa. “For something.” Her face glowed in the candlelight. It took Carl’s breath away. “So my question is this,” Trickshot asked her. “Where do we go from here?” “We can’t just go around arresting people because they’re robots!” CrazySugarFreakBoy! objected. “We might as well just go around arresting people because they’re black or Muslim or gay!” “You clearly haven’t seen police racial profiling techniques,” commented Mr Epitome. Special Agent Garrick frowned at the quibbling members of the Lair Legion. Nothing had changed during his temporally-shifted absence. The heroes were still a long-term liability. “This isn’t a debate,” he told them. “This is a consultation about implementation. The US government has already decided upon a programme of detention and deactivation for all so-called Robo-Americans.” “I thought you were supposed to be offering robots civil rights,” challenged Hatman. “The SR 1066 people did that nasty little back-office deal with the Machine Shop. Recognition in civil law, right to vote, right to hold property…” Garrick sniffed. “That arrangement was voided when it became clear that the committee that proposed it was not working in the best interests of the American people. What is in our interests is to contain the threat of what is effectively another species amongst us who have the ability to open the door for the Parody Master’s forces at will.” “Still sticking to that ‘I was Obedience Branded’ story, huh, Garrick?” CSFB! scorned. “You and every other power-grabbing politico sleaze out there.” “But I was…” Bad News Herb objected. Al B. Harper interrupted him. “The issue isn’t whether we should shut down Robo-Americans, and maybe their counterparts in other nations if those countries elect to do that. It’s whether we can.” “There are considerable metahuman forces now at our disposal,” Garrick noted. “We should be able to gather up the majority of the robots in two weeks at the most, although we model that the last 10% will be more problematic. We know their enclaves, their meeting places, the identities under which most of them have been masquerading as human.” “I don’t mean can we bully mechanical people into surrendering,” Al argued. “I mean I don’t know whether we can shut them down without killing them.” “They can be rebooted,” Garrick answered. “At the appropriate time.” “If the appropriate time ever comes,” snorted CSFB! sceptically. “But can they?” Al asked. “Or will that just reboot something that acts like the previous sentience? Will we have killed the original and created another?” Garrick sniffed. “What’s the difference?” “Hallie refused to be shut down and rebooted,” Hatman remembered. “She almost died rather than risk being reset and coming back as a copy of herself.” He scowled worriedly. “If there’s no guarantee we’re not killing robots by shutting them down for a while, we can’t do it.” “And they sure aren’t going to volunteer for genocide,” hissed CrazySugarFreakBoy! “You try this, I’m out there fighting on the robots’ side.” “Typical,” Mr Epitome spat. “Civil disobedience as a first resort.” “If we get back a robot that acts like the original, what’s the difference?” asked Garrick, unconcerned. “They’re only machines.” “Sentient machines, as far as we can tell,” Al B. corrected him. “You simply can’t do what you propose, Garrick. It’s quite possibly murder.” “I don’t see Sir Mumphrey going for this, with what Al’s saying,” Hatman warned the President’s Special Advisor on Metahuman Affairs. “Sir Mumphrey has made it clear that he is not going to interfere in domestic policies,” Garrick said. “This is an internal security issue. Lots of other nations will be making similar provision. Some will also require disassembly of the… apparatus.” “No way,” CSFB! warned, getting agitated. “It’s just not…” “There is a way,” Mr Epitome broke in. “Another way. A… a compromise. If Dr Harper can work out a way to make it happen.” “What’s that?” Hatman asked hopefully. The paragon of power explained. “It seems that there is a clear and present danger from the robot community that cannot be ignored or left to self regulation. However, the risks of deactivation or disassembly would create a massive resistance that would weaken and distract the defence efforts of this nation. So we need a different solution.” “Well, duh!” CrazySugarFreakBoy! interrupted. Mr Epitome gestured downwards to the extensive basements of the Lair Mansion. “Under here we have the most comprehensive virtual reality net on the planet, the electronic environment that Hallie took over from Virtual Zemo. We used it recently to gestate Miiri’s child.” “So?” Garrick demanded. “It is powered by shielded generators and battery back-ups that will not disrupt the Celestian barrier. We have the capacity to translate matter into its virtual counterpart and back again. We can project that matter into a virtual environment identical in almost every way to the real world we now occupy.” “You’re saying we could turn Hallie’s virtual world into a… a holding place for the urban robots?” Hatman understood. “The words you’re looking for are Internment Camp,” CrazySugarFreakBoy! disapproved. “You’d prefer the alternative, Foxglove?” Mr Epitome challenged. “And if the process was safe enough to use on Miiri’s unborn child then it should be safe enough for Robo-Americans.” “It’s probably doable,” Al B. Harper considered. “Probably. But Hallie’s not going to be happy.” “Nobody’s going to be happy,” Hatman assured him. “But what are the alternatives?” “The Hooded Hood isn’t here.” Jury, former Shaper of Words didn’t offer Lisa a seat. Lisa took one anyway. “I’ll wait.” “He may be some time,” Jury glowered at the amorous advocatrix. “There’s probably no point staying to see him. I’m sure you must have many other calls of a similar nature to make.” “Insecure much?” Lisa mocked the blonde woman in the silver armour and formal robes. “Then again, you do have a habit of grabbing up my cast-offs, don’t you?” Jury flushed, knowing what her visitor was implying. “I didn’t see Jarvis asking you to marry him.” “That’s because, with me, he didn’t have enough breath to speak.” “He was probably too busy trying to work out if he’d left you enough cab money on your nightstand.” “But then again, I wasn’t sleeping with him or Ioldobaoth for what I could get out of them.” The two women bristled at each other. Lisa had known when she came to Herringcarp Asylum that her old rival had taken refuge here, but she hadn’t wanted to waste time actually speaking with her. But since she was here… “I do have one question,” the first lady of the Lair Legion said. “About Jarvis. Did you kill him?” The Shaper blinked. “No. That was Samhain, the Destroyer of Tales. Jarvis bartered his future to Samhain in exchange for a chance to beat the Hood’s schemes. After that, the whole scenario with the Nebulus that led to Tim’s actual death was just… the inevitable consequences. How could you think that I murdered him?” “Because you’re a solid stone bitch who lost any feel for humanity when she died and got revived as the cosmic Shaper of Worlds,” Lisa suggested. “And what’s your excuse?” Jury shot back. Lisa sneered. “Say what you like, blondie. I never came crawling to a mortal archenemy I’d failed to defeat and destroy despite my overwhelming powers, spread my legs and mewled ‘Save me!’” “Like you’d need a reason to spread your legs, you damn slut!” Jury accused. “No, in your case the Hooded Hood retconned away your whole life, made Jarvis your long-lost brother, wiped your children out of reality, at least until they came back as Christopher, and exiled all your friends to Comic-Book Limbo. Then you slept with him.” Lisa shook her head. “Well, not that it isn’t fascinating to see how low you’ve sunk since the you scurried away from the Parody Master it was your job to stop,” she declared, “but I actually came to talk to somebody who is relevant and occasionally useful. Some of us are still fighting, not making our living as comfort women.” “Much as I despise him, the Parody Master is willing to take apart a universe to get me, Lisa. I don’t see him coming back for seconds from you.” “I think he prefers his woman cowed and pathetic. I can see why you’re top of his list, Jury.” They glared at each other across the distance of Herringcarp Asylum’s entrance hall, under the gaze of the gargoyles carved atop the archway pillars. Lisa forced herself back to business. “I’m looking for some missing friends,” she began again. “You wouldn’t know what friends are.” “I know where all my friends are,” Jury retorted. She glowered at Lisa. “And my enemies.” “I want to know where the Doomherald’s taken Liu Xi and the bottled city of Badripoor. I want to know where Kinki has taken Miss Framlicker. I want to know where Camellia has Naari, and how Vizh and the others are getting on finding her. I want to know what happened to the Librarian.” “Quite a list,” smirked Jury. “Do I look like an information booth?” “No, you look like a…” Lisa began, then caught her temper. “I came to ask Ioldobaoth,” she said instead. “I’ll be sure to tell him you dropped by. You see he and I communicate. We can talk about art and literature and history and philosophy. A relationship of mind as well as body.” “You poor thing,” moued Lisa. “Well tell him this, then. I think it’s a huge coincidence that Badripoor got stuck like that with his son inside. I think it’s curious how the Doomherald was then able to get away the bottle, carrying the shrunk-down Juniors off with him. I think it’s telling that when Xander and the Shoggoth are asked to locate the Doomherald they says things like ‘I’m afraid I can’t lead you to them’, which isn’t the same as saying ‘I can’t find them’.” “Fascinating,” Jury answered. “And you thought that all out by yourself did you?” “And tell Ioldobaoth,” Lisa concluded, “that if any harm comes to the Juniors or to spiffy and Banjooooo or to Liu Xi because of one of his oh-so-clever schemes that there won’t be enough of him left to scrape up with a blotter.” “And you think you can match the Hooded Hood, do you?” Lisa stood up. “Jarvis gave his life to stop that megalomaniac bastard. You think I won’t? You tell him, Jury.” She turned to leave but looked over her shoulder and added, “Oh, and I should watch the calories if I was you, dear. You don’t have magic powers to stop you looking like a bloated whale now. Bye!” “Internment?” Edward Gramayre asked with some amusement. “That’s a creative solution from the Lair Legion. And some creative ethics, as well.” “Wars require compromise,” Citizen Z answered. “There’s still debate over the implementation. Canada and the UK have voted against blanket confinement of robotic lifeforms. Russia and Japan have outlawed all non-human sentiences. At the very least it’s ramping up the powers of world governments to monitor and control their citizens, paving the way for more radical changes later.” “Good,” the emissary of the Shadow Cabinet approved. “Then it was worth the effort I went to in provoking those robot cultists in the first place. Nothing like a sticky moral issue to keep Wilton distracted, disheartened, disorganised.” Citizen Z shook her head. “I’m not convinced. I think you consistently underestimate the old man. Or overestimate your own cleverness.” Gramayre looked up sharply. “Be careful, woman. I break the tools that turn in my hand.” “That telepathic trick you use to dominate weak minds?” CZ asked sceptically. “My mask includes a telepathic field deflector that protects me from your commands. You won’t be able to order me to slash my wrists like you did to Amy Aston that time.” “I don’t need my powers if I choose to destroy you,” Gramayre warned. “I serve the Shadow Cabinet, the conspiracy of conspiracies. Our agenda has been worked out through the ages. If I want you disabled, or dead, or damned, I have the power to make it so.” “So you say. But you still underestimate Sir Mumphrey Wilton, Gramayre. He’ll never forgive you for arranging the torture and destruction of his family. He’ll never stop hunting you. And right now he has the resources of a whole planet to use.” Gramayre smirked. “And every move he makes brings my work closer to fruition.” He glanced over at Citizen Z. “And when the hour comes, you will slay him and take his place.” “Probably,” agreed CV. “But not working for you. You’re a fool.” “What?” Gramayre growled, annoyed at such insolence. “A fool,” repeated Citizen Z. “I don’t work for fools.” She turned and opened the door. “I work for him.” Sir Mumphrey Wilton filled the doorway. “Thank you, m’dear,” he told Citizen Z. “You can return to the Mansion now.” He advanced into the room, face reddened, fists folded, eyes cold as death. “Gramayre and I have business to conclude.” Coming Next: Liu Xi Xian, Princess Annar, the Doomherald, and a bottle full of teeny tiny people all cooped up in a lonely Alpine hut with nothing but hidden agendas to keep them occupied: Untold Tales of the Parody War: Cabin Fever. The Footnote before the Storm: Edward Gramayre is a mid-range telepath recruited to the Shadow Cabinet somewhere in the 1930s. Like other Shadow Cabinet operatives his life appears to be artificially extended. He was involved in the programme that shut down metahumans after world war two, fell from Shadow Cabinet favour for a while after his manipulations around Ultimate Ultizon went badly wrong, but was reinstated to mastermind much of the unpleasantness of the recent attempts to pass a Freedom and Patriotism Act, Special Resolution 1066. Amongst Gramayre’s nastier gambits was the revival of the immortal Erskine Black who tortured and killed Mumphrey’s daughter and son-in-law. Gramayre’s Guests Rikka ulz Hagen is the world’s foremost expert on computer sentiences, grand-nice of Dr Ernzt Vizhnar, Zemo’s brilliant research scientist and creator of HALLIE. Ulz Hagen has clashed with Hallie on a number of occasions. Gregory Vassilych, Factor X, is a former Soviet spymaster turned entrepreneur middleman for the criminal underworld, a powerful broker of arms and services. Jethro Screwdriver is the underworld financier, ostensibly a respectable businessman but secretly the backer of many illegal operations. U.N. Administrator Xavier de Questillada and U.S. General Buck Barker appear for the first time in this story. Obediah Blott is the millionaire arms dealer owner of Turrets, Inc. Citizen Z, probationary Legionnaire, is secretly villainess Baroness Elizabeth von Zemo, a fact so far known only to Sir Mumphrey Wilton and the Hooded Hood. Wexford the Dissected Man and the Bonewalker have not yet appeared in any Parodyverse stories. Major Dick Standard of Terminus Team is the career fighting soldier placed in charge of the rehabilitation programme for convicted metahumans to earn their pardons through undertaking suicidally dangerous missions. The Widget (Alice White) has a brief tentative romance with her archenemy ManMan before electing to submit to Patriot Branding. She has now joined the Terminus Team. Exemplary is a former Shadow Cabinet operative with the ability to manipulate biogenic fields to harm or influence others and to enhance his own physical abilities to amazing levels. He has previously fought Mr Epitome, and has tortured ManMan and beaten Aunt April to a pulp. What a good job he’s become nice now. Urban Robots, a.k.a. Robo-Americans, are now a feature of modern polyglot society. Rumours abound about how the first of these self-replicating self-aware machines came to be, and estimates vary as to how many or how widespread their mumbers are; there are certainly tens of thousands of them, mostly “passing” as human in plastiflesh disguises, living and working like their neighbours. A few robots eschew human guise, and some also upgrade to have special combat abilities. The most notorious of these are the Machine Shop, a robot criminal gang recently shut down by the Lair Legion (except for their Master Machine and his right hand Industrial Machine, who were never found). Contessa Natalia Romanza, ex-Soviet masterspy, once married the Carl Bastion (Trickshot) from this reality (the Legion’s Tricky is from a parallel Earth), only to betray him to her master, Baron Heinrich Zemo, who murdered him. Her husband later returned from the grave as Deadshot, a twisted undead who impersonated the Legion’s Trickshot to seduce, capture, and torture her. The Contessa now works as intelligence officer for SPUD (the Super-Menace Principal Undercover Directorate), although she was recently hunted by them when the organisation temporarily fell under the control of Exemplary. Trickshot did indeed travel through time and dimensions to rescue her. Special Agent Herbert P. Garrick is the President’s Special Advisor on Metahuman Affairs, head of the Federal Metahuman Resource Centre, and a world-class pain in the backside. He actually was Obedience branded during the recent SR 1066 conspiracy, though, which is why Sir Mumphrey Wilton shifted him two months forward in time rather than slaughtering him. Jury, Shaper of Worlds was formerly Jarvis’ fiancée before dying in a car crash. Thereafter she was recruited to become one of the three principle cosmic office-holders, responsible for the seeding of new stories in the Parodyverse. In that role she often clashed with the Hooded Hood, who always seemed able to turn her attempts to destroy him to his ultimate benefit. However, it was to the Hood that she eventually turned when the Parody Master came to make her his Bride. The Parody Master has effectively destroyed her cosmic office, capturing her gifts and resources, but before fleeing Jury was able to hide the ultimate source of the Triumverate’s power, the Storyheart (beneath the Lair Mansion). Jury has since had a liaison with the Hooded Hood and continues to live as his guest at Herringcarp Asylum. Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2006 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2006 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. |
| Echo™ v3.0 beta © 2003-2006 Powermad Software |
|
|