Happy Anniversary
It was a stormy night in Millennium City. Craig Carson was on his guard when he entered the penthouse skylight, where, so he had been told by his most reliable contact, supervillainy at its most foul was taking place. The room was dark when Thundrax entered, and he could recognize many shapes -- it was an ambush. Craig charged himself with lightning -- and then the room suddenly came alive with light and noise, bright balloons and the blaring of two dozen party horns.
"Surprise!" the crowd shouted, and confetti rained down from the ceiling, coating a startled Craig Carson's head like snow. In the room were his secretary Rimi Kumiko, his old StarForce teammates, Lyle Doerksen (the third Forceknight, now retired), Ravenspeaker, his brother Jack Carson, even the monolithic figure of Elemmus from his first team, SUNDER, several other members of the Flux-Carson team as well as several local superheroes, Jim Exington, Arnold Quaid, Emily, even the little scientist known as Particle Man, some of his closest friends. It was a "mingle-rich" environment, with an interesting person at every turn. But for now, the throng was unified for one purpose, and a rousing chorus of "Happy Anniversary" filled the room.
"Craig, if you could see the look on your face," Justiciar chuckled in his Nova Scotian voice, lilted with a touch of an Irish accent, relaxing his all-too-serious demeanor for just one day.
"Speech! Speech!" Ravenspeaker cawed, looking resplendent in a three-piece suit.
"Where's the fricking stripper..." Dust Devil snorted, less amused than most.
Craig sighed and struggled to put on a smile. Those who knew him best recognized when Craig was faking a smile, but they chose to ignore it, this time. "Believe it or not, I'm not a party person, and I don't like speaking about myself, only about the things I believe in."
"For Pete's sake, Craig," Justiciar snapped. "If you haven't earned the right to believe in yourself, no one has?"
"Then I guess no one has," Craig whispered, giving it the lightest of shrugs, but he continued to smile.
It was thirty years to the day when a lightning bolt had struck a teenage boy who had scrambled onto the roof of a building in East Vancouver to talk down a woman whom he thought was committing suicide. Thirty years since he had heard the woman say: "You are worthy, Craig Carson, to receive the power of living thunder!" Thirty years since the lightning bolt struck him, and he fell from the roof in a body that was not his own. Thirty years since the birth of Thundrax. His friends wanted to celebrate it, and who was he to throw the world's biggest wet blanket on it? So Craig Carson played along with his friends as they smiled, toasted him, and then (like all parties) settled into conversations that had nothing to do with him whatsoever.
Thirty years. Craig had had enough of retrospectives five years ago, which had passed in relative quiet. Now the National, the CBC News, was showing a 45 minute documentary "The Mullet at Thirty". Media outlets from across the continent wanted interviews. Commemorative plaques and stamps were being sold. The Atlantean embassy, grateful for his help on several previous missions, was hosting a major charity fundraiser in Craig's name. And the two major comic book companies that sold Thundrax comics (Craig had put his name and likeness into Creative Commons for merchandizing purposes, so anyone could legally publish their own Thundrax comic) were having a crossover for the first time, with the golden leafed issue proclaiming "The Ultimate Battle: Thundrax vs. Thundrax!"
It was all just too much for a humble boy from East Van.
Craig decided to perform Stress Reduction Treatment #2: Flight. Find a nice deserted stretch of wilderness and just go for fly. Somewhere where no one would bother him, and if by chance any supervillain decided to take a potshot at him. It was a stretch of woods in upper Michigan state, and the great lake was clearly visible to the north. He felt bad that he hadn't been able to join in the spirit of celebration. But it was just a date on a calendar, he told himself. Nothing really important.
Craig probably could have been more attentive. It was a clear day, following an unseasonal snow that had Thundrax wondering if Borealis's plot to open a fissure to the Frost Tomb hadn't worked after all, with only traces of cloud. But as Craig flew, there was an odd disruption at three o'clock, and from a warp a large metal titan materialized. It was about five meters in height, red with black trim, a very familiar design. Destroid, the robot enforcers of Albert Zerstoiten, the great and powerful Dr. Destroyer, justly feared as the most dangerous man on earth. Craig recognized it as a smaller version of the same advanced model that attacked the Champions HQ in Millennium and Justice Squadron Tower in New York last year. He pivoted, decelerating in a sudden and painful lurch, charged his body with five hundred megajoules of electricity, and prepared to let it fly.
But then a second destroid warped into view, then a third, then a fourth, and then a fifth. Before he could react, Thundrax was surrounded on all sides by mechanical marauders. He channeled a tiny trace of electricity to his comm implant, attempting to send a distress signal -- and was not surprised in the least to discover it was being jammed. Six super-destroids surrounded him in a force bubble, filled it with a sonic bubble that overwhelmed his senses, and Craig Carson slumped into unconsciousness.
Thundrax awoke on a comfortable bed in a perfectly arrayed room. The furnishings were blue and gold, matching the color scheme of the room: the colors of Craig's old costume, the one which he'd worn for so many years, and there was a large Canadian flag. A small servitor robot, like a beautiful spider, lifted up a camera head with many eyes. "Mr. Carson, I trust you are not uncomfortable. Welcome to Garuda Base."
"Garuda?" Craig said, half-questioning, half-moaning. Even in his stupor, he recognized the reference, th" great bird of Vedic mythology, who supplicated himself before Vishnu. Given that Destroyer occasionally referred to himself as "the Shiva of the modern world" (which of course, offended several superhumans who saw himself as the incarnation of that deity), it certainly fit his motif. "I think you'd better take me to your master and get this over with me. Provided that this isn't an elaborate prison cell." Craig said, still wincing from the pain of his capture. "Sorry." he corrected. "I should do you the courtesy of announcing that I'm a prisoner first before I start making demands."
"Thank you," the robot said, surprisingly well-manner. [i]He's a supervillain's C3PO, a protocol droid[/i], Craig thought, inwardly amused. "if you do not mind waiting, a meal is being prepared." it added.
"So," Craig smiled. "It's dinner and a show?" The robot had no response.
Thundrax decided to relax and wait, casually inspecting the area for surveillance and weak points to exploit in an escape attempt. Craig wasn't used to gilded cages -- when he was taken prisoner, he almost always ended up naked in some sort of high-tech stocks, the traditional fate (or so he previously observed) of buff blond-haired protagonists in pulp stories when they were taken captive -- but a cage was a cage, and Craig was not going to be taken prisoner without a fight. But for now he lazily lay on the bed, hands cupped behind his head, his feet resting on a pillow.
An hour later, almost as if a chime had sounded, the robot stirred. "The master will see you now," it said.
"Thank you kindly," Craig replied, skipping off the bed. "Now if you please lead the way?"
"Certainly!" the robot said.
The door opened, and outside the "guest chamber" there were very modern furnishings employing a red and black color scheme, with gold highlights. An intricate piano concerto filled the rooms at an even volume, relaxing yet mournful, set in D Minor. Craig didn't recognize the piece, but his musical soul belonged to Led Zeppelin, not Mozart or Brahms. He followed the robot, and the images of masked figures set in the wall bespake the world-shaking ego of its owner.
He was taken into a large dining hall, a crystal chandelier set high above a table of gleaming black glass: Craig saw images of destruction dancing in the beautiful glasswork that shone from above and both admired and loathed their terrible beauty. But it was the man at the head of the table who commanded his attention, as he always did. Albert Zerstoiten, the Old Man, the most brilliant and dangerous mind on Earth. The man who burned down Detroit. Doctor Destroyer.
"Doctor," Thundrax said respectfully. "It's been quite awhile."
"I am quite aware of the passage of time, Mr. Carson." Destroyer said, a little curtly. "Please sit down."
"Thank you," Thundrax said. "You look better than you did at our last meeting."
"Obviously," Destroyer said, remembering the confrontation in Multifaria, where Thundrax was among those who had joined forces with him to free him from the grasp of Citizen Harmon, the so-called Shadow Destroyer.
"My apologies for making small talk, Doctor." Thundrax said. "I forgot that the great and mighty Albert Zerstoiten never does anything small."
Destroyer gave only the slightest of nods and took a sip of wine, which somehow permeated his faceplate. "Mr. Carson, you seem to be in a contrarian mood. But this is not a battle. Perhaps the meal will improve your disposition," he remarked.
"Forgive me, Doctor, but I don't believe a meal will prevent me from being contrarian toward you." Thundrax replied.
"Such hostility spoils the pallette." Zerstoiten stated. A host of robots began marching in, carrying various dishes, mostly fusions of Indian, Japanese and Chinese cuisine. "I did not brought you here to kill you, or to do battle..."
"Don't tell me you're wishing me a happy anniversary," Thundrax sighed.
"Why should I not? Have you not saved the world several times? Are you not worthy of celebration? You have done all of humanity a service, and though Destroyer stands above the common herd, still even I am included in that number. And Destroyer is no ingrate."
"I hardly did it for you." Craig snapped.
"Nonetheless, you did so. And this is your reward. I have brought you here for your enjoyment and enrichment. As you can see, I am practiced and accomplished in all the predatory arts."
"I really hadn't looked at cooking in such a way," Craig noted, directing them to put a dish of Kobe beef on his plate. "Predatory? Is that your perspective on everything?"
"There is nuance, of course. But nuance can distract from a broader understanding of things. It is more of a tool for dissemblance than understanding."
"It can be," Craig said, striving, ironically, to present good table manners to his host. He was normally a bit of a slob.
"Genius must eschew falsehood, Mr. Carson." Destroyer stated.
"Does that apply to you, Doctor?" Thundrax replied, taking a sip of the wine. "But then again, are you truly a genius?"
"You doubt my intellect?" Destroyer's voice had a bit of an edge to it. It bothered Craig less than it should have, given that by most accounts (at least, those not tainted with fanboyism), Destroyer was more than capable of killing Thundrax at a moment's notice.
"Not at all," Thundrax replied, after he had chewed through a vegetable dish. "The quality of your table alone speaks to the enormous range and depth of your abilities. But what is ability without accomplishment? You have made enormous technical strides in areas that I can't even begin to comprehend. Yet, nothing of that vast reservoir of knowledge has found its way into the hands of society."
"I will rebuild society," Destroyer promised. "And then my gifts shall be shared."
"Not this again," Craig sighed. "Look Doctor, the clock is ticking. You're old. In fact, you're dying," He paused to inspect the man's reaction, not that he could tell much when his face was covered. "And we both know it. I saw your body outside its shell when you were in Multifaria. You could barely stagger twenty feet into your costume unaided. It was a wonder that Shadow Destroyer had your costume so close to your prison."
"Not such a wonder," Zerstoiten rebutted. "There's a failsafe in my armor that prevents use of my technology without my biometric proximity. The false Harmon had no choice if he wanted to exploit my technological riches. And the sensors needed me: not a magical clone or a simulacrum."
"Granted, but that misses my point," Thundrax said. "The world is getting along quite nicely without the help of Albert Zerstoiten. There are new revolutions in every field of science opening up daily, all without your genius. The world is passing you by. Suppose your heart gives out, or you develop a cancer you can't beat? You will die, and everything you've done in your life will become dust. When I look at you, do I see the greatest genius in the world? Maybe. But I also see the biggest waste."
"Then, perhaps we should change that," Destroyer replied. "Twenty-one years ago, I made you a proposition that would have changed the world, and you refused."
"Your offer to empower every human on earth and turn them into a superbeing. I'm very confident I made the right choice."
"Yet you accuse me of being an elitist by being exclusionary with my technical innovations, even while you are proud of being exclusive with superhuman abilities."
"In all likelihood, our species will reach the point of becoming largely superhuman by more gradual and natural methods," Craig replied. "Without the chaos caused by a quantum level surge in the number of the world's metahumans."
"And yet you fear such growth, and the means by which it must occur. Even your own beloved Sarah's own innovations in transhumanism." Destroyer replied. "Yes, I know of them. In fact, I know far more about her work than you do."
That did not encourage Craig one bit. He told himself that losing his temper would be the surest way of losing control of the situation. "To be honest, I found your previous offer less than credible. I was a second tier superhero on a small local superhero team from Vancouver, SUNDER. I had no reputation, no track record. And yet of all of the superhumans in the world, you gave that choice to me? And not Vanguard?"
"Reputations are deceitful things," Destroyer said. "Except for mine, of course. But even at Henderson's little conference, when I stole your powers, I saw the fires of leadership in you. It is your nature. I knew that time would temper you and in the crucible of insanity that is the superhuman experience you would find your destiny. You have become great, Craig Carson, as I alone foresaw, and not from your powers. From your will."
"If you think that I would cooperate with you after Detroit..."
"Did you not already do so when you helped to rescue me in Multifaria?" Destroyer countered. "When the price is high enough, you will gladly take the 40,000 lives that were lost in Detroit -- as well as your personal loss -- and throw them on the pyre."
Thundrax's eyes narrowed in anger. "When it comes to marketing, Dr. Zerstoiten, you have much to learn," he said, not hiding the anger in his voice.
"Then the marketing I leave to you, Mr. Carson," Destroyer said. "This is my offer. I will give you access to a library of my creative innovations. In energy, robotics, medicine, music, and in fields that are not even dreamt in the imaginations of this planet's lesser minds. You wish to advance this planet? You wish me to innovate the human race? The box is open to you."
"And the price?" Thundrax asked.
"Your life will belong to me, body, mind. and... well, I do not think highly of the soul. However, I will add one benefit. You will have my word that I will take no aggressive action -- aside from any requested by you, in defense of this planet -- for four years. If I am doomed to die soon, as you say, then I will not live to see my hundredth birthday. And you will have spared the world from my... predatory interests."
"I find it hard to believe you would tolerate a being with mythological origins in your employ, Doctor."
"That is true," Destroyer replied. "I would remove your access to your superhuman form, but I would give you a replacement body to command that would exceed it by an order of magnitude."
Craig took another sip of wine. "I prefer meat to metal, Doctor."
"I am confident in your ability to adapt, Mr. Carson," the Doctor said. "But you have no excuses left. Either you reject my technical expertise, and prove yourself a hypocrite and your arguments specious, or you will embrace my service, and the world will receive great gifts."
"Did you make the same offer to Vanguard? Or Amazing Man? Or Defender?"
"Vanguard was not an intellectual at heart. He had an indomitable spirit, to be sure, but I might as well have made the same offer to Muhammed Ali. As for Dr. Renton, he believed that his own talents sufficed to advance the world, despite evidence that belied his talent for innovation. And I have chosen not to talk with the leader of the Champions."
"He's capable." Thundrax said. "Are you afraid of him?"
Destroyer laughed. "I realize we are enemies, Mr. Carson, but that is no reason to insult me. I have personal reasons for avoiding that insufferable charlatan. Fear is not among them. Destroyer is above that frailty. It is one of many reasons why my rule shall be a blessing to our species. But what is your choice, Mr. Carson?"
Craig Carson rose to his feet. "I thank you for the meal, Dr. Zerstoiten, and the hospitality of Garuda. But as for what you propose, I must acknowledge myself as a hypocrite who makes specious arguments. Better that than betray everything I believe in, and everyone I know."
"Fool!" Destroyer snapped, also rising to his feet. Craig aimed a lightning bolt at the titan, which impacted against his armor with no apparent effect whatsoever. "Canadian, you shall not be offered greatness a third time! Know the power of the Destroyer, fall to earth, and mingle with the ants amid the mud!"
Craig materialized in front of the armored megalomaniac and struck him in the face with his best shot, thunder reverberating within the chamber. It would have staggered all but a handful of people on the planet: unfortunately for Thundrax, Zerstoiten was not only on the list, he stood alone, unchallenged, at the very top. Destroyer responded with a back-handed slap that would have torn the armor from a tank, and then pressed a button on his control. Suddenly, a portal opened up in the floor beneath Craig Carson, with a tube underneath. And Thundrax fell. Somehow, Destroyer had negated his ability to fly. He was banished from Garuda -- a great flying base that was suspended five hundred miles above the planet -- and indeed he fell to earth.
Craig silently fought the urge to blurt an obscenity and desperately tried to ignite his ability to fly, or use his lightning, or any of his abilities. It felt like a cigarette addict desperately trying to get a flame from a lighter with no fuel. He couldn't even generate enough electricity to manipulate his comm implant. Yes, he was not in his mortal, Craig Carson body, and under normal circumstances the Thundrax form could survive the fall, but what if Zerstoiten had also turned off his invulnerability?
Passing through earth's thermosphere, Craig's costume ignited and burned away to nothing, but didn't have any effect on his actual body. Thundrax almost breathed a sigh of relief -- this was only going to hurt like hell, he'd maybe fracture a few bones if he could find a way to land flat -- and watched the world spin beneath him as he tumbled. He fell to earth in the middle of a copse of Siberian woodland, making a very large crater and passing out on impact. An hour later, some very startled Russians found him, naked and still unconscious, in the center of the crater.
There was one upside to the incident, the Russians who found him had some very good vodka, and they were more than willing to share. They never, however, found clothes that were large enough for him, so he lounged around in gym shorts while one of the older women made alterations to a friendly farmhand's clothes. A few days afterward, the lightning came back, and Craig managed to get hold of UNTIL and the Canadian consulate. But during his stay, he constantly looked skyward, and muttered three words, over and over again, repeating them so often that the amused Russians thought they were his second name.
"Next time, Albert," he said. "Next time."