The Pestilential Prison, Part 1
The Pestilential Prison, Part 1
The future is soon.
Welcome to Olympus City, where super-powers, physics-defying tech, and unearthly creatures are all possible now. Human nature, however, remains unchanged.
No one is born a perfect superhero, but a few strive to live up to the ideal anyway.
Part 1
Miranda turned a corner and stumbled upon a headless suit of golden armor. And it wasn’t alone. They surrounded her, each identical to its neighbor, each bearing just as much resemblance to Doctor Hades as they did to the Golden Gladiator. Wires spilled out over exposed circuits as researchers examined the components while technicians fiddled with microchips.
Hephaestus Enterprises had become a much busier place than Miranda recalled. It was positively bustling.
“Those aren’t ready yet,” Sibyl Shipley said, guiding Ultra Woman away from the workstation, the most spacious of the many areas sectioned off by tall dividers within the hangar-turned-laboratory.
“Why does Carey need six spares?” Miranda asked. “Is he expecting to burn through them that quickly?”
“Carey doesn’t need a spare.”
Three men in lab coats nodded in greeting as they passed, carrying a long aluminum tube like it was a perfectly natural item to lug around. Navigating their next corner proved rather unnatural, but they solved the problem. A lot of that going on here.
Miranda had never seen so many people in this facility at the same time. So often, it had just been her, Ken, Fantastic Man, Dr. Luna, and perhaps a colleague or two of Luna’s, such as Sibyl.
Now the place was a maze of cubicles and dividers, every square foot dedicated to studying formerly impossible matters. Miranda had stopped by to check on two such matters. But now she was also curious about those suits of armor.
“If they’re not for Carey …”
“Carey alone can operate his armor,” Sibyl explained. “A difference of neurology. We’re developing modified units that any properly trained individual should be able to operate. Watch your step.”
Robotic mice scurried across the floor, for what purpose Miranda had no clue. She floated over them, then landed beside Sibyl.
“Who would these properly trained individuals be?”
Sibyl’s lips curled into a wry smile. “One thing at a time. We haven’t even perfected the armor yet.”
“But what’s the idea once you do?”
Sibyl stopped, took her glasses off, and extracted a small cloth from the pocket of her lab coat.
“Super-powers have so far been left to chance,” she said, obliterating a persistent smudge from the lens. “Even in Carey’s universe, that’s often the case. But what if we could put candidates through a rigorous screening process to ensure that the best of the best acquire these special talents?”
Miranda tried not to read any insult into that, though she couldn’t fault the logic.
“For starters,” Sibyl continued, holding her glasses up to the light for an inspection, “we’re envisioning a Golden Gladiator Corps. A few years down the line, we may even be able to surgically alter an individual’s genetic structure to implant a suite of specific abilities.” She wiped away a second, smaller smudge. “But we will choose the candidates.”
“Who’s we?”
“Carey and myself.” Passing the next inspection, the glasses returned to her face. “Perhaps you and Mr. Amazing as well.”
“I’m not qualified to decide who gets powers and who doesn’t.”
Curious eyes peered through immaculate lenses and drilled into the superhero. “But you are qualified to wield superhuman strength and speed?”
No was her immediate reaction, but Miranda kept it to herself. “You didn’t mention Fantastic Man. Are you expecting not to find him?”
“We’re still working on that.”
“And which ‘we’ is this now?”
“I remain involved in that research. The lunar rocks you retrieved proved to be a dead end, unfortunately.”
Miranda had killed a super-strong cat to get those lunar rocks. She could still feel the poor creature’s teeth biting into her as she snapped its jaw. “That was for nothing?”
“It was for process of elimination. We’re exploring other avenues now.”
A short, potted tree peeked above the next set of dividers. Two scientists were stretching one of its branches like a rubber band, quadrupling its previous length.
“Looks like you’re exploring a lot of avenues,” Miranda said.
“And we now have the staff to do so.”
“Okay, fine, but—”
“You want to check on Mr. Neal. Again. I know. We’re almost there.”
Ollie Neal had received his own dedicated workstation. His jigsaw puzzle form was laid out across a long folding table, and the conspicuous holes remained. Three scientists hovered around him, examining various pieces under magnifying glasses, microscopes, and a hi-tech scanning gun of some sort. Ollie appeared no closer to regaining his humanity. And if he ever did, piecing his psyche back together might pose an entirely separate challenge. Miranda could only hope he wasn’t experiencing the full passage of time while in that form. The inventor of the empuzzling cube still hadn’t recovered from his own brief experience as a jigsaw puzzle; he couldn’t even bring himself to consult on Ollie’s case.
“We are working on it,” Sibyl assured her. “We’ll figure it out.”
One of the scientists poked a sharp instrument into the image of Ollie’s shoulder. Miranda winced and turned away.
“I just hope there’s still a person left when you do.”
As they exited the cubicle, Carey spotted them from down the hall and gave a hearty wave. Miranda was still getting used to the idea of “halls” in this hangar.
“So, what do you think?” he said, flashing his usual crooked grin. He was, evidently, not asking about Ollie. To Sibyl, he added, “You showed her the Corps, right?”
“Empty suits are not a corps,” Sibyl corrected matter-of-factly.
“No, they’re more like eggs,” he said with an implied wink, “and eggs hatch in good time.”
“If they don’t get eaten.”
Carey laughed at that, which somehow led to him and Sibyl sharing a long and sincere kiss. Miranda did not see it coming, having assumed that Carey’s idea of romance equated more or less to that of an animated family movie. Truly anything was possible here. She glanced into the nearest workstation while the pair concluded the interaction. Researchers were testing a force field generator, which seemed downright mundane compared to the other projects.
“I’d love for you to be on board with this, Ultra Woman,” Carey said, shifting right back to business. “Anytime you’ve got questions or concerns, give me a ring. I’m always happy to bend your ear on the subject. I’m committed to making sure that everything we do here helps people. And what better way than creating heroes?”
“It’s certainly an ambitious goal,” Miranda said, in lieu of any actual opinion on the subject. She wasn’t opposed to a Golden Gladiator Corps in theory. It would all depend on the people, or rather, on finding people qualified to operate superhero armor—qualified in terms of skill and character. And there was the rub.
Miranda changed the subject before Carey could ask any follow-up questions.
“Oh, good job taking down Clodhopper Lummox, by the way. I was there in the crowd.”
Carey nodded. “Protecting the civilians. Yep, I saw you.”
Of course he did, Miranda thought.
*****
Ken had the good sense to live alone, though that good sense came with certain tradeoffs, namely the tight quarters. It was like a dorm room that had accrued modest interest since graduation. Very modest. The square footage and clutter seemed to enjoy an inverse relationship.
Miranda, upon realizing she had interrupted his cleaning, offered to provide some super-speed assistance. Ken, of course, declined as he invited her in.
“Nice work rescuing that cruise ship,” he said once the door was shut. Miranda had indeed tugged a cruise ship to shore after an engine fire disabled it that morning.
“Well, I heard you stopped a bank robbery yesterday.”
A small headshake minimized the feat as a faint smile curled up. “Just ordinary crooks.”
“Still a big deal to everyone who was there.”
A pile of clothes rose off the couch and into a laundry basket. Ken gestured to the now-vacant cushions.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “Can I get you anything?”
“Do you actually have anything?”
Ken thought about it a second. “Water. Some cold cuts. Sorry, it was an empty gesture.”
“It’s okay. Just had lunch.” Miranda leapt onto the couch but never landed on it. She floated on her back above the cushions, as though lying on an invisible hammock. “Oh, I saw our old buddy Clodhopper Lummox yesterday.”
“I heard about that.” Ken’s face wrinkled. “The news didn’t say you were there.”
“I was. Ultra Woman was not. Carey showed up and had it under control, so I got to enjoy just watching the whole thing—the whole very short thing.”
“He’s been keeping busy.”
“Very busy.” The ceiling reflected none of the apartment’s clutter. Just bland eggshell white. “He wants to start a Golden Gladiator Corps. It’s a ways off, but his people are building new armor. Said he wants to create new heroes.”
Miranda turned to watch Ken’s reaction. He gave very little, a slight squint as he chewed on this update.
“The same armor as his or different?” he finally said.
“Looked similar. All gold.”
“If he gets the right people, they could do a lot of good.” His head tilted to the other side. “But I’m not sure how inspiring they’d be if people find them interchangeable. What does Alyssa think of this?”
“Not sure. Haven’t been home yet.” Miranda’s phone toned. She pulled it from her pocket and found a text from Peyton. “My little sister wants to know if I saw Ultra Woman bringing the ship in.”
“You did, technically.”
“I’ll just tell her that I saw the Golden Gladiator take Lummox down. She’ll love that.” Miranda typed a response, smiling as she pictured her sister’s enthused reaction.
“Miranda, I’m happy for the visit, but … are you having problems with Alyssa?”
“I thought this was the apartment with no mind-readers in it.”
“I’ve had a hard time adjusting to that too, but—”
“It’s not—” Miranda flipped right-side-up and dropped onto the couch. “Yes, I came here not to talk about it. You got me. My suggestion now would be to not ruin my master plan by making me talk about it.”
Ken raised his hands in surrender. “All right. Your call.”
The apartment fell into silence. The messy, cluttered apartment.
“Really, I don’t mind helping you clean up.” Miranda pointed at the dishwasher, which was propped open. “Those clean? I can unload those in two seconds.”
A glint caught Ken’s eye, and a coy smile spread. “Nah, I got it.”
With a little wave of his hand, the dishwasher opened, as did a cabinet. Plates rose from the dishwasher, forming a neat and orderly line as they flew into the cabinet and stacked themselves.
A drawer slid open, and the silverware rose from the tray. But Ken did not put the utensils away just yet. Instead, he made them dance. They all bobbed up and down, like they were marching across the air, and then they split off into two groups, with both sides tilting toward the middle, then away, then continuing to sway back and forth. Ken conducted with his hands. Miranda laughed.
Two steak knives came to the front, and they dueled with each other while the rest floated behind them, a silent and mostly still audience. The stainless steel clinked and clanged as the opponents struck their blows.
All the while, Ken twisted his hands and wiggled his fingers every which way, like he was operating a strange new video game controller.
A mischievous smirk forming, Miranda flew over and snatched a butter knife from midair. She brandished it at the floating silverware and adopted a cartoonish accent.
“I challenge your greatest warrior to a duel,” she said. “Who dares to face me?”
Ken sent another butter knife at her. “I will face you,” he said on behalf of the knife, making it bob as he puppeteered.
The knife clanged against Miranda’s. She struck back, floating across the tiny apartment as she dueled with the flying knife. The rest of the silverware hovered in place, suspended by telekinesis.
Was it appropriate to use super-powers for their own entertainment? Was this behavior befitting of Ultra Woman and Mr. Amazing? No one was watching, so Miranda didn’t see any harm.
This was exercise, she decided—an opportunity to hone their fine motor skills. Ken was strengthening his concentration while Miranda navigated the tight quarters without bumping into anything.
Ken’s phone beeped from its countertop perch. Miranda exploited the momentary distraction to knock her silverware antagonist out of the air. She caught it before it hit the floor. The rest of the silverware, however, clattered against the tiles, no doubt to the dismay of the downstairs neighbors.
“I’m getting those,” Miranda insisted.
Ken muttered a “Sure” as he typed on his phone.
The silverware all returned to the dishwasher within seconds. Miranda came to a stop beside Ken and resisted the urge to float and read over his shoulder.
“That was my friend Lance,” Ken said, voice flat, face serious. “Trouble with one of his residents. A lady’s power is out of control, and Webster—you remember Blowfish, right? He nearly died.”
Miranda remembered the ex-con well. Hard to forget a man who could puff himself up like that. “Oh my God. Is he okay?”
“He’s recovering, but someone else could get hurt.”
Miranda imagined a Golden Gladiator Corps swooping in and handling the situation, and she wondered how long it would take them to swoop in. Nothing was stopping her and Ken from swooping in right now.
“Then Mr. Amazing and Ultra Woman have some work to do.”