The next level by David Niall Wilson 4 page

Gillian was no different from other children her age. Happy and playful, inquisitive and devilishly clever, sweet as a gumdrop yet incredibly advanced for a child still finding enjoyment in endless repeat viewings of Snow White and Shrek on DVD (I still have trouble getting that damn Monkees song out of my head at times). No doubt that heightened intellect came from the genetic material on my side of the family‑that boorish lout Sienna married could barely hold a conversation. If my sister hadn’t been so mawkishly devoted to Bernie, I’d have annulled the marriage years ago‑with the aid of a gun. My sister deserved better than a trash collector.

Gillian was my fail‑safe, my logic being that if a child could pick out the faults in my plan, then so could any of my enemies (even the dullards who failed their advanced algebra classes back in high school). On more than one occasion had Gillian spared me the indignity of a failed operation by assessing the initial plan and reaching the conclusion it was a load of “poopie.”

Poopie.

From the mouths of babes, indeed.

What I came to call the “April Retribution”‑although, in hindsight, “Judgment Day” might have been a far better sobriquet‑passed the Gillian Test with flying colors. She even giggled when the three‑dimensional computer simulation depicted just how widespread the devastation would be… although I equated that more to her enjoyment of video games and their colorful graphics than out of any sociopathic desire for bloodshed. Still, my spirits were buoyed by her enthusiastic reaction. Now I was certain it would prove to the citizens of Amicus that Professor Josiah Plum was a man to fear‑and assure a highly intelligent little girl that not all of “Uncle Josie’s” plans were steaming piles of excrement. That the old boy still had it.

In retrospect, of course, I shouldn’t have been so focused on further inflating my already sizable ego. Years of experience should have taught me that, but no upstanding member in the brotherhood of villainy had ever gotten anywhere by listening to the voice of reason. And I was as guilty as the next in allowing my actions to be directed less by common sense and more by sheer arrogance. And arrogance could sometimes be such a costly‑and unnecessary‑distraction in my profession.

Former profession, that is.

Ah. My title. Not quite the sort of name you were expecting from a criminal mastermind of my caliber, I imagine. Professor Plum‑sounds as though I’ve escaped from a game of Clue (and yes, I’ve heard that more times than I care to remember). Why didn’t I go by a flashier name, like “General Malpractice” or “The Biochemist,” is that it? Well, to quote the Bard, “What’s in a name?” In my… former profession, noms de guerre and gaudy costumes were a dime a dozen, and Professor Plum had better things to do with his time than dig behind sofa cushions looking for spare change. And honestly, no one wearing enormous metal shoulder pads, waving around a gun the size of a missile launcher, and calling themselves “The War Machine” ever struck fear in the hearts of the average citizen. As those of my generation well knew, it was the deeds that made a villain, not a ridiculous code name‑a fact that was unfortunately lost on our younger, fashion‑challenged brothers and sisters. More importantly, it was the amount of creativity one exhibited in carrying out a criminal act that often determined the level of respect one received from one’s peers. Blow up a tank or police car? Extremely commonplace, and the sort of distasteful, over‑the‑top showmanship most self‑respecting intellectuals abandoned immediately after their first public appearance. Level a building? Dramatic, to be sure, yet lacking any real style. But cut off the satellite feed to a Super Bowl or the Academy Awards, and the world erupted in chaos. There were few as creative as I in those days, and the majority of the recidivistic community greatly respected my ingenuity. As for those members who refused to acknowledge my artistic superiority… well, they weren’t around long enough to make the same mistake twice.

But I digress.

Krayle, Alessi, Smythe, and Elsinore all agreed with Gillian’s approval of the plan, and “April Retribution” was placed on the fast track for implementation. I’d been out of the public eye for eighteen months‑having faked my own death for what must have been the twenty‑fifth time‑and was eager to show the world not only that I’d returned from the grave (again), but that I was ready to pick up where I’d left off. Looking back, I realize I should have done a bit more planning before greenlighting the project. The exuberance of resurrection, I suppose.

Still, it wasn’t as though I lacked the necessary materials to carry out the operation. I have a veritable army of synthadroids‑synthetic androids, to the laity‑stored on the bottommost level of this underground lair, so activating one was a simple as pressing a button. Most of my artificial henchmen lack features, because more than a decade ago I discovered that the sight of faceless warriors precision marching down a street will do more to incite panic among civilians than roving bands of thugs wearing helmets fitted with Plexiglas visors. A hundred or so of my mechanized legion, however, were constructed with features that matched my own: stunt doubles, as it were, who stood in for me when it became apparent that faking my own death was the only option left available if I wanted to ensure my escape from a particularly sticky situation. A suicidal leap from a cooling tower into the heart of a nuclear reactor; vaporized in the explosion that ripped apart my base in Antigua; chewed up by tentacled, interdimensional creatures from a parallel universe‑synthadroids provided me with countless ways to cheat death and avoid capture. And not only were they relatively inexpensive to manufacture (one of the many advantages of outsourcing jobs to southeast Asia), but they were biodegradable as well. Ten minutes after their “deaths,” the androids would either dissolve or turn to dust, leaving behind no trace of evidence that might have proven to my enemies that I still lived… although I’m fairly certain they knew, anyway. As the saying used to go in my line of work, “Just because you saw them die doesn’t mean they’re really dead.”

I did manage to keep them guessing more times than not, however, and that was due to the lifelike actions of my stand‑ins: they mimicked my physical characteristics so well that even Elsinore could be fooled into thinking she was talking to me and not a mechanical fabrication. Yet in a way she was talking to me, through the aid of one of my more inspired creations: the Psychelmet^™. By putting on this device (which, I’m sad to say, looked not unlike an overturned colander with wires and jumper cables attached to it), I could transfer‑or upload, to use the more accurate terminology‑my consciousness into the synthadroid’s computerized brain, and direct its actions from a distance of up to five miles. Usually, that meant I was nowhere in the immediate vicinity of whatever final confrontation was about to take place with my opponent, but through my body double I could still experience the pleasure of beating some costumed cretin to a bloody pulp without actually having to be there. And when the odds eventually turned in my enemy’s favor, as so often they did… well, all I needed to do was withdraw my consciousness from the android at the last possible second, and let the hero (or heroine) dispose of my now‑lifeless doppelganger in some typically dramatic fashion‑unwittingly, of course.

So I had the means to deliver my message of retribution to the world. Now all that was needed was a way to ensure it would be heard… and understood. But I’d already settled on a solution to that minor intellectual challenge an hour before I convened with my lieutenants.

A decade ago, a series of experiments I was conducting with wormhole technology resulted in the weakening of the vibratory barriers that separate this world from its counterpart in a neighboring dimension: a parallel Earth. It exists temporally out of sync with mine, just seconds apart‑a hairs‑breadth in distance on a cosmic scale. As the years passed and I was able to stabilize the wormhole to permit travel through the barriers, I learned there were other Earths, in other dimensions‑an almost infinite number of them, in fact. And on none of the parallel worlds to which I made excursions did I find a single superpowered man or woman. To say I was shocked would be accurate; to say I was delighted by this revelation would be an understatement. That’s not to say there are no dimensions brimming over with costumed lunatics; I’m almost certain there must be, somewhere. It’s just that I saw no evidence of spandex‑wearing simpletons on the Earths I visited.

On one such alternate‑not the one inhabited by the tentacled monstrosities that devoured my synthadroid stand‑in, thankfully‑I learned of a powerful explosive invented by my counterpart, an acclaimed scientist praised for his humanitarian work and idolized by the world at large.

I killed him, naturally. Put a large caliber bullet through that much‑loved brain of his, and stabbed him in both eyes.

As I may have mentioned before, feelings of inadequacy tend to bother me a great deal.

My late dimensional brother christened his explosive “hellfire” because of the intense heat and flames produced when the mixture was detonated‑in poetic terms, it provided a brief glimpse into what “hell on Earth” might be like on a small scale. Or so he believed. As it turned out, he’d never actually put his wondrous discovery to use, although he had submitted a patent for “ Plum ’s Controlled” something (it looked like “Detonation”‑his handwriting was atrocious) “Compound.” According to his notes, he wasn’t certain of what might happen if the mixture were set off or even whether the explosion could really be controlled, but had no intention of finding out. Like Alfred Nobel, who was condemned for his invention, dynamite (and who then used the vast fortune he amassed from sales of the explosive to establish the prizes he named after himself, so the world might think better of him‑the fool), Other‑Plum was concerned more with his legacy than with demonstrating to his scientific peers that his was the greatest intellect.

And you wonder why I killed him.

Unlike my altiverse twin, I wasn’t the sort who trifled in making busywork for myself that no one would ever see. And if he was too timid to make use of Plum ’s Explosive Compound, I wasn’t. Based on his notes‑some words of which I had to guess at, that bad handwriting of his again‑and my computer simulations, it appeared that a two‑pound charge of this “hellfire” was sufficient for the task I’d set.

The charge was shaped and fitted into the chest of the Plum synthadroid. All that remained was for me to make my dramatic reappearance.

I chose a bench at the southeast corner of Cor‑man Park as the location from which to stage my comeback, situated as it was at a large intersection close to the financial district. The spot was also directly across the street from the criminal courts building, home to the multitude of prosecutors and judges I had come to know‑and despise‑so well over the decades.

An unmarked white van, driven by one of my underlings, delivered the android to the target. Then I slipped on the Psychelmet^™, slipped into the robot’s mind, and stepped out to greet my adoring public.

The panic that ensued was glorious and, unfortunately, as short‑lived as it had ever been. Because within two minutes of my appearance, the Devil chose to confront me, as he had so many times in the past.

DeviHawk, I mean, not Lucifer… although an appearance by the Prince of Lies would have been a welcomed change after enduring so many encounters with the heroically‑garbed pissant who play‑acted at being him.

I never understood the Hawk‑his motives, that is. Why a grown man would choose to dress in gaudy red spandex and black leather, glue a tiny pair of horns to his temples, and parade around in public beating up people could probably be better explained by a mental health care professional. I’d always been too preoccupied with killing him to give it any real consideration.

He swooped down from the noonday sky on red glider wings that were attached to his gauntlets, and landed a few feet away. Keeping his distance, naturally.

“Hey, Prof,” he said casually, knowing full well how much I hated being called that. “Finally decided it was time to crawl out from under your rock?”

I eyed him closely. “You don’t seem surprised by my return, Hawk.”

He shrugged. “Nah. I figured you were still out there, somewhere, waiting for the right moment before you dragged your sorry ass out of whatever hidey‑hole you’d slithered into.” I could tell he was lying, though‑I always could. He’d literally jumped for joy when he thought I’d fallen into that reactor core. Seeing me again (even if it wasn’t the real me) was troubling him deeply; it was obvious by the way he kept nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

I directed the android’s servomotors to twist the corners of its mouth into an approximation of a smile. “Yes, well, now that I’ve ‘slithered’ back out, I have just one question for you.”

He tensed, no doubt expecting me to attack. “And what’s that?”

“Are you familiar with the Book of Revelations?” I asked.

DevilHawk started, then shook his head in disbelief. “Huh. Never figured you as the type to get religion, Prof.” He flashed that insufferably condescending grin of his. “You gonna start quoting Scripture now?”

“Just a verse or two,” I replied. I cleared my mechanical throat. “ ‘And when he opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse; and his name that sat on him was Death. And Hell followed with him. ’ ”

As planned, that was the moment when my‑or, rather, the synthadroid’s‑chest began beeping. Counting down.

The Hawk’s eyes widened. His jaw slackened. It was such a delicious moment when he finally realized that he’d been conversing with a machine. That he’d been denied another opportunity to pound my head down around my ankles. And that my stand‑in was about to explode.

I immediately pulled out of the computer brain and returned to my body. I’d had the last word; now I could observe what came next from the safety of my lair. Overnight, Smythe had dispatched a squad of technicians to install hidden cameras throughout the area, so I could enjoy the festivities. All I had to do now was sit back and watch.

The Hawk leapt forward, grabbed hold of the android’s shirt, and tore it open. No doubt he expected to find a timer under there, one that would give him some idea of how much time remained before the blast. Time enough, I suppose, for him to find a way to defuse the bomb.

There was no timer, however; I’d stopped using those years ago. Perhaps if DevilHawk had paid for a subscription to Scientific American instead of Maxim, he would have been able to keep up with the recent changes in mad scientist technology, instead of focusing all his attention on the cup size of the latest cosmetically‑sculpted supermodel. I, on the other hand, learned of and quickly invested in some of the more popular trends in terrorist equipment, such as biological weapons, laser‑guided missiles… and voice‑activated switches. In this case, quoting from Revelations was the trigger; the bomb was set to detonate five seconds later. Long enough for me to savor the horrified look in the costumed hero’s eyes as he saw the end coming.

The explosion was… spectacular. Like Vesuvius unleashing its molten fury or the gates of hell being thrown wide open. Every one of my hidden cameras were vaporized in a split‑second; a minute later, my lair was struck by an intense shockwave‑even three miles down‑that knocked out the generators and plunged us into darkness. By the time we were able to get some of the systems back online and the monitors restored, I was left with only the views provided by my spy satellites to see what was taking place in Amicus.

And what a sight it was. The flames roared high above the spot where the city should have been, extending upward into the atmosphere as though the devil himself was reaching up with a giant hand to pluck the stars from the sky. And when I focused the cameras on the ground, I saw no evidence that Amicus still existed‑every building, every tree, every person had been consumed.

“Oh, my God…” I heard Elsinore whisper behind me. I, on the other hand, was at a loss for words.

It was a much larger explosion than I’d expected. And it didn’t stop.

Suddenly, the sky itself was aflame, and the fire began spreading, moving outward from Amicus in all directions. And as the conflagration began its apocalyptic race around the planet, I recalled a declassified U.S. government document I’d once come across in my studies: a report filed by Arthur Compton, one of the scientists working on the Manhattan Project in the early days of atomic bomb research. In it, he mentioned that a fellow scientist, Edward Teller, had expressed some concerns about the first test explosion‑that the possibility existed they might wind up igniting the atmosphere through the fusion reaction of nitrogen nuclei. He was proved wrong, of course. Atomic bombs were incapable of setting fire to the atmosphere.

Hellfire, however, could. And did.

And as the world burned, I came to understand just why Other‑Plum had steered away from testing his compound. He knew‑feared‑this might happen.

I came to another chilling realization at that moment, for my subconscious had never stopped trying to decipher the crudely scrawled word I’d seen on my twin’s patent application for Plum ’s Controlled Compound. It had finally worked through the puzzle; now I had my answer.

It wasn’t “Detonation.” It was “Deflagration”‑the continuous process by which combustion spreads via thermal conductivity, as when something hot, like an uncontrollable flame, heats and then ignites something cold.

Like the atmosphere.

That was a little over a year ago. The flame front circled the globe in a matter of hours, burning brightly until the lack of oxygen finally extinguished it. By then, every human and animal, bird and insect, flower and tree had either died from asphyxiation or been incinerated‑save for those men and women (and one child) who were gathered in this underground facility. And even that situation would change, over time.

The first three months were especially trying. As the realization that they would never see their loved ones again, never be able to set foot on the surface for the rest of their lives, finally sank in among my followers, problems arose. Some committed suicide; others slowly went mad. The majority, however, decided to turn their anger on me. Elsinore did her best to keep the rabble in line; eviscerating the most vocal among them seemed the best deterrent, though they never stayed quiet for long. By the time things finally settled down, I was reduced to thirty underlings from a staff of more than one hundred.

Well, it certainly helped to make the emergency rations last longer. But it did nothing really to resolve a far greater crisis: what to do for breathable air when the oxygen supply ran out seven months later.

Thankfully, most of the surviving noncombatants were technicians, not soldiers, which meant we could focus on carrying out my solution to the predicament: abandon the lair and travel to another Earth via the dimensional portal. Unfortunately, a number of the gate’s power cells had been damaged by the explosion’s shockwave, and repairing the system would require cannibalizing other equipment that had been damaged just as badly. It would also take more time to accomplish the work than we had available air in the oxygen reserves… unless the ranks were thinned even further.

I put that consideration on hold until the repairs were well underway. What little chance we had of departing the necropolis this Earth had become served as a great motivator for my staff, and I was not about to deny them that hope, especially when it meant the difference between escape and another potential uprising. Still, I knew cuts would be necessary at some point, given the dwindling amount of supplies on hand‑there was no getting away from it. Yet I couldn’t just start… firing the techs. I needed their expertise. That left upper management, and I knew I would have to personally oversee those terminations.

Alessi was the first to be “let go.” In this brave, dead world I’d created, accountants were superfluous when budgetary concerns had to be cast aside in favor of basic survival needs. I’m sure he would have approved of my cost‑saving decision‑if I hadn’t slit his throat first. Krayle and Smythe followed him two months later. With no martial campaigns to map out, or intelligence to gather, I thought it best to downsize those departments on a permanent basis.

I have no doubt Elsinore could see her demise coming, might even have considered some ways in which to prevent it. And yet, her love for me was so great, so utterly blinding, that she could never bring herself to raise a hand against me, and apparently believed that I felt the same toward her.

Pitiful, really. You’d think a woman ordered to slay her own father would know better than to trust her life to the same man who’d given her that order… but no. At least she died knowing that her noble sacrifice would allow me to go on living a few days longer.

By the time the air grew heavy with the stench of the decaying bodies scattered throughout the facility, the repairs had been completed and the gateway reactivated. In six hours, it would be at full power, and then this blackened husk of a world would be just a distant memory. So with everything up and running, and my technicians’ services no longer required, I now had an opportunity to make the final staff cuts. But I didn’t bother with guns or explosives to do the job.

Instead, I held a birthday party.

Gillian, my now emotionally traumatized niece, had actually turned six a month earlier, but with my top priority being the restoration of the portal, her special day hadn’t been properly celebrated. I promised to make it up to her then, and Josiah Plum always kept his word… in some form or another.

I found a stale angel food cake and a can of chocolate frosting in the back of my private pantry, then made a stop at my laboratory, where I added an extra ingredient to the frosting: a hint of one of my faster‑acting poisons. Just to give it a little kick. Then it was off to the party in the main control room, where I found the remaining staffers had hung a large handmade banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY GILLIAN.

Charming.

The party was an overwhelming success, and the cake quickly devoured by one and all‑except for me. I complained of a minor toothache. No sweets for me, thank you, so Gillian happily gorged herself on my slice, in addition to her own.

It didn’t take long for the poison to run its course. Gillian, having consumed the greatest amount, slipped away quickly… although I hadn’t expected her passing to be quite as disturbingly violent as it turned out. No doubt an allergic reaction to the drug. It was something to keep in mind for future reference…

The others died among a chorus of screams, whimpers, and vituperative utterances‑directed at me, of course. Eventually, though, the bothersome noises trailed away, and the only sounds that could be heard in the control room were my labored breathing… and the hum of the dimensional portal.

And now I stand at the gateway, ready to cross over to a new world. There is nothing left here for me to come back to, so I’ve programmed the facility’s generators to overload minutes after my departure. One final, explosive gift for the dead planet I once called home. Yet I feel no sense of melancholy, no desire to choke back any tears, for a new home awaits on the far side of the portal, and I am eager to place my mark upon it.

The mark of its conqueror.

And should the inhabitants‑whether costumed or not‑foolishly decide to oppose me, then perhaps I will introduce them to the amazing, literally earth‑shattering qualities of a special formula I like to call Professor Josiah Plum’s Controlled Detonation Compound (Patent Pending).

I’ll get it right next time.

In the end, I always do.

STRONGER THAN FATE by John Helfers

D eep within his Ebon Citadel, ensconced firmly if not altogether comfortably, on the Throne of Black Blades, Khazerai the Undying drummed his thin, ring‑bedecked fingers on the cold arm of his chair, and wondered where it had all gone wrong.

How could it have come to this, when everything else has happened according to plan? he wondered. Granted, his rise to total dominion over the entire continent of Cauldera had not been without its set‑backs, but overall things had worked out exactly as he had expected.

First, he had deposed the weak and ineffective ruler of the small kingdom of Yulen after quickly working his way up the royal chain of command to become the king’s personal adviser. A nip of poison in each of his twin sons’ drinking goblets to emotionally cripple the old man, and a series of successively larger glasses of wine before bedtime had ensured the old fool’s complete ignorance as Khazerai had slowly replaced the guards and staff with men loyal to him. When the coup happened in one swift stroke, the people were actually hailing him as their savior, which he was, he supposed, of a sort.

Next came the annexation of the surrounding lands, during which his agents sowed unrest among the peasants by promising them their own land in return for harsh but not totally crushing taxes to fund the monarchy, leading to an uprising when he invaded each country with his small but well‑trained force. Soon Yulen was four times its original size, and its army was anything but small.

Khazerai then had his men trained and equipped with the best weapons and equipment that could be made or bought, and declared brutal war against the rest of the kingdoms. Often this announcement was initially met with derision, as several of the other lands had been unwilling to believe that Yulen, previously known only for producing exceptionally fine chicken eggs, was now on the warpath. Several swift victories ensued, with Khazerai’s trained men overwhelming the ill‑prepared, unwieldy enemy armies in a series of swift tactical strikes.

Others thought themselves safe behind the ramparts of the Duchy of Tolera, which was twice the size of Yulen in both holdings and its military. But Khazerai’s spies had also brought that kingdom down from within, whispering to each of the three sons that he should be in charge when their father passed on. When the duke suddenly expired from an overdose of a sleeping draught in his nightly wine, each of the sons, thinking that both of the others had moved to kill their father and claim the throne, declared war on his siblings, dividing up the armies and navies and battling each other. All of which left the kingdom’s borders wide open. With such an invitation, how could Khazerai refuse?

Once again, the ruler of the Yulen Empire was hailed as a savior both behind and in front of the scenes. His men had brokered treaties with each of the three armies in turn, then destroyed each prince when the time was right; one vanquished on the battlefield, one assassination, and the third one by mob reprisal after it was learned about his (completely false, mind you) unnatural attraction to farm animals. Each prince’s death had been blamed on one of the other two, and Khazerai had gladly stepped in to stop the princes’ reign of battle and bloodshed, and replace it with a more moderate reign of fear and secrecy.

With Tolera’s rich farmland, ore‑laden mountains, and healthy population under his control, the rest of the continent only needed to be mopped up, either by a show of diplomacy‑usually by parking half of his army at a soon‑to‑be‑subjugated land’s border while sending the other half around to flank. While his army was out consolidating his rule, Khazerai did not fear reprisal at home either. As soon as he had taken power in Yulen all those years ago, every able‑bodied man and woman had been required to serve a two‑year term in the military and spend one weekend a month and three weeks a year fulfilling their duties, making them more than able to fend off an invading army until he could return. But who would even dare try such a thing? No one, that’s who, he thought.