The Machinist Part One: Malevolence Page 7

  “Then what?” The hero shouted back.

  “Then nothing! He’s too heavy to get out, and he’ll burn to death if he changes back! He’ll be stuck for a while!”

  The hero’s eyes brightened and McHenry could tell the young man was smiling beneath the half-mask that covered the lower portion of his face.

  “Let’s do it,” said the young man, sending another wall of fire crashing down around Stoneskin. This time, though, he kept pumping out more and more flames. The aura around him was slowly getting thinner and he hovered ever downward as each second passed.

  McHenry fired a steady stream of laser bolts in a circular pattern around the villain. Stoneskin swatted a few of them away, not understanding the duo’s intent. Despite the titanic weight of his stone form, Stoneskin took several slow steps towards them. He made a beckoning motion, trying to taunt the pair into coming close enough to smash with his enormous, granite claws.

  “You can’t aim for shit, Mister Roboto! Keep it up, you both be outta juice soon!” Stoneskin mocked.

  And he was right. McHenry’s HUD reported the lasers were almost forty percent drained. And the fire kid’s aura had turned blue, but was starting to flicker. But they kept at it, and eventually Stoneskin’s beleaguered footsteps were further hindered by the fact that he was sinking into the tar. It sloughed around his legs and steamed.

  “Aw, shit,” Stoneskin had just enough time to swear as the ground beneath him gave way. There was a loud crash, and the fire kid tossed two little balls of flame into it for good measure.

  “That’s … that’s ...” the hero panted in exhaustion. “Why they call me the Torch.”

  The hero’s eyes rolled back in his head and the aura of fire around him sputtered out. Unconscious, he began to fall.

  McHenry wondered if the world wouldn’t be better off without yet another cape in it.

  The thought passed. McHenry teleported down to just above street level and caught the unconscious hero with his cybernetic hand intercepting him before he hit the ground. He propped the kid against the side of a relatively undamaged car, then leaned against it himself.

  McHenry told himself that the hero was useful, that he could use him to get close to Brass. Yeah. That’s it. I can use him.

  “Hey …” Torch groaned, having bounced back much more quickly than a normal person would have. “… We get him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nice,” the hero reached his right hand out to McHenry. It was shaking a bit. “People call me the Torch.”

  “You said that,” McHenry responded, and made a downwards spiraling motion with his good hand as he continued, “Before you …”

  “Oh.” Torch blinked his eyes a few times. He was still holding out his hand.

  McHenry did something he never imagined doing before. He took the hero’s hand, and shook it. “Call me the Machinist.”

  Chapter Seven

  Boom!

  A series of almost rhythmic explosions rocked the city.

  Torch and McHenry agreed to turn off of 5th Avenue once they hit West 47th. From there it would be almost a straight shot to the heart of the Network’s run on the city, and Baron Brass. There was only a handful of blocks left between the pair and that turn. A few squads of Network soldiers took shots at them as they made their way uptown, but the duo overcame them all. McHenry took a few minutes to recharge his hover boots and laser array in an abandoned convenience store while Torch downed a pair of energy drinks. McHenry didn’t fill in the hero on why, exactly, it was that he was going after the criminal mastermind at the center of things. The kid just assumed he was another hero, fighting the Good Fight and hoping to take a swing at the Big Bad—and McHenry went with it

  “Orlando never got this crazy,” Torch observed, slurping liquefied caffeine and sugar from a can.

  McHenry responded, “New York’s never been this crazy before either.”

  “Wouldn’t know,” said the young hero as he pulled his mask back up over his face. “I’ve only ever seen it in movies.”

  There was an awkward silence. Torch broke it. “Where were you when you got the call from S.T.R.I.K.E. to get over here?”

  “S.T.R.I.K.E.?”

  “The Superhuman Tactical Response and Information… something-something,” Torch floundered. “The guys who fund the state and national super teams.”

  McHenry had never heard of such an organization, but it explained a lot—where the heroes got the money for their bases, their fancy cars with rocket launchers, the four-man hovercrafts. “Oh. Yeah. I was … here.”

  “Oh, cool, you’re local? Ever meet the Titans of Liberty?”

  McHenry chuckled. “Yeah, once.”

  “Oh man! What was it like?”

  The sound of an explosion stalled McHenry from having to provide a damning response. He nodded at Torch, instructing, “Time to go.”

  ***

  Stormsoul and Ravencloak flew side-by-side towards the source of Rampart’s last transmission. Neither of the young women spoke, each too brave to express any sign of weakness to the other.

  The crackle of their communicators springing to life broke the awkward silence.

  “Stormie, Raven, you copy?—where are you two?” It was the voice of the only other female member of the Titans super-team. Ivy Lane, also known as the Mentalist. A psychic.

  Ravencloak looked to her right towards Stormsoul and nodded. “We read you. Stormsoul and I are coming up on the Square. Two blocks out.”

  The voice on the comms turned dark. “Perfect.”

  “What did she mean by—“ Ravencloak started, turning to look back over to Stormsoul. But she was gone. What had taken her friend’s place in the air was an immense demon with charcoal skin with lava blood that seeped from the cracks in the rough flesh. It cackled at her. Her father.

  “You!” Ravencloak grimaced, and spun in the air before blasting out a wave of shadow-matter towards the demon.

  “What did you sa—“ Stormsoul turned to look to her left, and dodged a blast from the person flying beside her. She yelped and reached into the air, summoning a shield of electricity from the clouds.

  Stormsoul stopped in midair and glared at her opponent: a woman she hadn’t seen in years. Ravencloak was nowhere to be seen. It was her younger sister, a woman with the same elemental powers as herself but less restraint—and certainly less morality. As Stormsoul let loose a bolt of electricity from her fingertips she did not deign to address her sister by her name, just the one she’d adopted for herself when she’d turned bad. Stormsoul hissed, “DeMorte.”

  The Mentalist was laughing over the comms but neither heroine heard it over the exchange of fire between them. Both of them were too busy combating each other—thinking they faced their own mortal enemies.

  ***

  When they finally hit 47th, McHenry and Torch entered a corner building and went up a few floors. The sky to the west was filled with storm clouds, bolts of electricity, and other strange lights. They peered down at the avenue below, which was devoid of heroes or villains. Another explosion, at the far end of the avenue, got their attention. A dozen Network soldiers and a few costumed villains poured out of a building and headed towards the source of the detonation.

  “Looks like you were right about heading to the Square,” Torch nodded. “How’d you know, man?”

  McHenry turned his head to the hero slowly and looked him dead in the eyes. “They always go for Times Square.”

  “I guess?” Torch shrugged. “Like I said, it’s my first time in New York, dude.”

  They each opened a window and flew out of the building, without another word. No one took any shots at either of them as they careened at top speed towards the city’s heart.

  McHenry grimaced--and the young hero choked up--as they turned the corner to enter the vast, billboard-littered space. The aroma of war, the stench of burned flesh, spent gunpowder, and discharged energy finally hit them. Below McHenry, the tattered bodies of Network soldiers
piled up alongside those of less-durable heroes who’d tried to take a shot at Baron Brass.

  Through the fog of war, McHenry could make out figures fighting farther down the street. His vision zoomed in and he recognized Rampart, who was struggling to push forward against a beam of energy being fired from some kind of cannon; down to the left, the black speedster kid was unconscious or dead on the pavement. Overhead, he could make out Ravencloak and Stormsoul fighting … each other? Baron Brass was standing on top of a toppled delivery truck, surrounded by floating orbs. From the way he was gesturing, it was clear he was in the middle of some dramatic exposition. McHenry mentally redubbed Brass’ dialogue: Blah blah blah, I’m gonna take over the world blah blah, I eat dicks.

  McHenry shook his head, returning his vision to normal.

  “Come on,” he said to Torch. “Don’t look down.”

  ***

  Rampart could feel his strength draining with every step forward he fought to take. The wave of light and sound emanating from the cannon that Baron Brass called a “sapper” burned him. Pain was a new sensation to the superhuman, and he did not relish it.

  “Can you feel it, hero?” The mastermind asked, cackling. “Can you feel the radioactive particles in your blood coming to a halt as my sapper matches their resonant frequency? Do your super-senses still work that well?”

  “You might … slow me down … Brass …” Rampart sputtered, managing only a few syllables at a time. “But … you can’t … beat my … whole team.”

  “Your team?” Brass laughed again, wheezing out a cough before replying. “Your team has got their hands full, you ignoramus!”

  The Baron pointed at Sprint’s unconscious body. “Sapped of the ‘inertia force’ that powered him.”

  Then, Brass made a sweeping motion over the pile of robot parts littering the ground in front of him. “Your ‘Sister Brain,’ dismantled down to the bits and bytes!”

  “And above!” Brass raised both his arms in victory. “Your two most powerful allies are tearing at each other’s throats—they don’t see each other anymore, they see their greatest foes! All thanks to my new friend!”

  The Mentalist grinned at the struggling Rampart and waved before returning her concentration to manipulating the minds of the dueling females above. She had been the first Titan to welcome Rampart to the team years earlier; she helped him come to terms with his mother’s death. And now she was betraying the team. Betraying him.

  Rampart gritted his teeth through the pain and demanded an answer from his former friend, “Why, Ivy?”

  She turned her head and winked. “Sorry, hon!”

  She blew a kiss at Rampart and returned to her work.

  Rampart tapped at the communicator on his belt and gasped, “Owl?”

  A thick Russian voice responded through the static with a hearty laugh. “Your friend not available. You leave message with the Butcher, yes?”

  The hero collapsed to the floor, the last of his strength gone. Baron Brass laughed, clutching his stomach and slapping his thigh. He turned to one of his camera drones and addressed the world.

  “Now do you see? Your greatest defenders have failed you. I warned you not to struggle against me, and now--”

  The camera drones exploded in a hail of laser bolts. A fireball struck the truck beneath the villain, igniting it. Brass took a few sudden steps back, nearly tripping on his own cloak.

  “Kaboosh!” yelled the Torch, emulating the sound his blast made.

  McHenry said nothing at all as he teleported behind Brass and cold-cocked him with his robotic hand.

  “Who—who DARES!” Brass screamed as he stumbled forward, catching himself and stopping a fall.

  McHenry leaned in and grabbed his foe by the arm. “I dare.”

  “McHenry,” Brass hissed.

  “McHenry’s dead. Call me the Machinist.”

  ***

  While his new friend traded punches with the bad guy, Torch hocked a few fireballs at the minions he saw trying to circle around to protect their boss—making them fall back. Then he summoned a wall of fire to cut them off from the fight completely.

  “Torch!” the Machinist yelled, dodging a strike from one of Brass’ metal gauntlets. “Blow that thing up!”

  “What thing?” He replied.

  “The--”one of the Baron’s punches connected with the Machinist’s stomach. “Ugh—the thing--on Rampart!”

  Torch glanced down and saw what the Machinist was talking about. A machine was blasting the world’s top hero with some kind of energy, and he was down for the count. Torch saw Network troops taking formation in the corner of his eye, and knew Rampart would be able to clear out the hornet’s nest much more effectively than he ever could, if he could just get back on his feet.

  He pushed a wave of flame towards the troops to buy some time, then turned back to face the machine. He lobbed three fireballs at it. It only took two to blow it. It was an impressive explosion, and it even knocked Machinist and Brass on their asses. But when the smoke cleared, Torch gasped.

  A woman’s body lay sprawled on the ground, a fanned splatter of blood for several feet in front of it. The back of her pink and white costume was ripped open, exposing blistered flesh. A jagged piece of the machine had severed her spine and right arm. Her unblinking, unfocused eyes were right on him.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Torch stammered. He knew who it was he’d killed; he knew she was one of the good guys. “I didn’t mean to—Oh, Jesus.“

  He turned to look to the Machinist for guidance, but found he was already back to trading blows with Baron Brass. He flew down to Rampart, who struggled to regain his footing. He put the Titan’s arm under his shoulder and helped him stand.

  “I—Rampart—Dude.” Torch struggled to find the words. How do you tell your idol you just killed one of his teammates? He couldn’t take his eyes off of the corpse.

  Rampart looked at the young hero and followed his gaze to the decimated body of the woman called the Mentalist.

  He turned to face Torch bleakly and grunted. “She was a … traitor. You did good, kid.”

  “Tuh—Torch, sir.”

  Ravencloak and Stormsoul—now free from the Mentalist’s manipulation—landed on the ground on either side of Torch and Rampart.

  “Raven—find Owl,” Rampart gestured eastward. “Storm … get Sprint to medical.”

  “What about—“ Stormsoul started to ask, but Rampart waved her off. He said, “The kid—Torch—and I will bat cleanup … in a minute.”

  “Who’s that guy?” Ravencloak inquired, pointing towards the ongoing melee between Baron Brass and Torch’s friend.

  “He said to call him the Machinist,” Torch said.

  Rampart tilted his head at the young hero, raised an eyebrow, and simply said, “Huh.”

  At that moment he was too drained to say or think much of anything else.

  ***

  “You don’t really think you can beat me, do you?” Baron Brass mocked McHenry as he shoved him backwards. “I have decades of experience! I put this all together!”

  McHenry’s onboard computer calculated he was about to fall and suffer serious injury, so it automatically teleported him another ten feet backwards and engaged his boots’ hovering capability. He took advantage of the range and targeted the parts of Brass’ armor that he’d weakened with his punches. He fired four bolts from his shoulder lasers, which tore into the would-be world dictator’s chest and leg armor.

  “I have you right where I want you, don’t you realize that?” Brass shouted. McHenry teleported inside of Brass’ personal space and grabbed at the villain’s weakened chestplate with his cybernetic hand. He tore it off and tossed it a hundred feet away.

  “Bullshit,” McHenry sneered, and punched the elder villain in the gut without looking. Instead of the hard thump of fist on flesh he expected to hear, or the crackle of bone splintering, he heard glass shatter and a slosh of fluid. He looked down at his hand while Brass screamed in agony. “What—what
the hell?”

  He pulled his hand from the flailing villain’s chest and stared. Instead of flesh and bone, Baron Brass’ torso was a jumble of glass containers with organs immersed in fluid, wired into a cybernetic skeleton. Plastic tubes pumped red and blue blood to and from his mechanical heart.

  McHenry’s onboard computer started pinging madly. He saw the work of Professor Nemesis in the heart; the stylings of the Technomancer in the organ containers—and the preservation fluid within was comprised of chemicals he knew Krudoff had created. And the skeletal interface jacks—those were McHenry’s own design.

  Brass stumbled backwards, muttering. “As I … As I … As--”

  The armored man started wheezing. He pulled his hood off roughly, tearing its seams. Then he pulled off the stylized metal skull and dropped it to the ground. He was an old, old man. The pale skin on his face was so leathery and tightly stretched against his skull that he almost didn’t need the mask to be terrifying. Old surgical scars surrounded data transfer nodes on his face where the mask had attached to it.

  He glared at McHenry—or, at least, in his direction—Brass’ eyes were milky and gray. He cleared his throat.

  “As I said before,” he spat. “I know how to put it all together. To make it work in a meaningful way. In a profitable way. I’m—I’m the Edison of crime!”

  McHenry took a few steps forward, then leaned to the left and tilted his head the same direction, saying, “Yeah?”

  He pulled his upper body back to the right quickly and dodged the old man’s punch. The elderly villain pivoted to his right with one leg. That told McHenry everything: He’s blind as a bat.

  “You tried to kill me, but that isn’t the worst thing.” McHenry shoved Brass to the ground and stood over him. He pushed his boot down into the container holding the old man’s lower intestines, and ground his heel on them. “You stole my friends’ work. You stole my work.”

  “You are just like Edison, you’re right,” McHenry hissed as he crouched down over the ancient criminal. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out the length of data cable he’d tucked in there earlier. With his other hand, he checked and made sure the other end of it was still jacked in to the back of his neck. “But you don’t understand every detail of the things you take. You don’t know how they can be used against you.”