Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect (35 page)

Yes, because if my life is
lacking anything, it’s weighty, potentially life-altering decisions.

Edison glances at his watch
and jumps to his feet. “Carrie, sorry to give you the bum’s rush, but I have to
meet with security in ten minutes,” he says as he escorts me back to the
elevator. “We have to have what I expect will be a very lively discussion with
the head of my nuclear micro-cell production facility.”

“About his future with the
company?” I ask. “Or, perhaps, lack thereof?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss
possible security breaches and the unauthorized distribution of proprietary
Bose Industries technology with anyone outside the company. Privileged
information, you know,” he says, the wink and nod implied.

“Have fun. And you’re
welcome. Again.”

Edison puts me on the
elevator. Before the doors slide shut, he hands me Crenshaw’s business card.

“Think about it,” he says.

“What’s there to think
about?” Matt says. “Yes! Tell him yes! Call him now and tell him yes!”

“Hold on,” I say, waving for
Matt to sit down. He flops down on the couch — Missy’s couch, I should note,
which has at last been freed from its plastic cocoon, along with all the other
living room furniture. Matt waves back at me to get on with it. “Let’s get a
group consensus first. Sara?”

“You kidding? I’m in,” she
says. “Let’s do it.”

Stuart doesn’t wait for me
to call his name. For a guy who possesses a shockingly comprehensive knowledge
of Robert’s Rules of Order, the boy has no respect for protocol. “Hells yeah.
Let’s do it.”

That’s four in favor and one
yet to weigh in. The majority may already rule, but I would prefer a unanimous
vote.

“Missy?”

“Okay,” she says, but
without a flicker of enthusiasm. “Look, it’s a great offer and I don’t want to
be the only one to say let’s not do it, but...”

“It’s okay, Muppet,” I say.
“You can be honest with us. No secrets, right?”

She nods. “I need a break
from the team. I’m not quitting or anything,” she adds quickly, “and I’m not
saying I’ll never be a super-hero again, but after everything that happened I
feel like me and Dad finally have a chance to be a real father and daughter,
and I want that, but I feel like if I don’t, you know, put in the time I won’t
get it. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, it does,” Stuart
says, taking her hand.

“Maybe to you,” Matt says.
“Missy, your dad lied to you. He’s been lying to you your whole life. How can
you forgive him for that? Why would you want to?”

Missy shrugs. “Why would I
not want to?” she says. “He’s my dad.”

“What about me?” Dr. Hamill
says as he shuffles in from the den. He’s in a bathrobe and slippers instead of
his usual suit-and-tie combo. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to Casual Ken
Hamill, but I’d be very happy if he forced the issue.

“Nothing, Daddy,” Missy
says. “We’re almost done with homework, they’ll be leaving soon.”

Dr. Hamill holds up a hand.
“Take your time, kids. No hurry.”

“No, it’s cool, we’re
actually all done,” I say. The others take the hint and we start to gather up
our schoolbooks and laptops. “Are you taking tomorrow off too?” I ask Missy,
who — with her parents’ consent — skipped school today for some well-deserved
family time. I wouldn’t blame her for ditching a second day, especially since
her ordeal (as it exists on the public record) has become a hot topic at
school, and the poor girl is going to get slammed with uncomfortable and
intrusive questions when she comes back.

“No, I’ll be there,” she
says. “Mom thinks it’ll be good for us all to get back into a normal routine.”

“Your mother is a wise
woman,” Dr. Hamill remarks.

“Right? Keeps us in line.”

“That she does,” Dr. Hamill
chuckles. “How about some warm milk before bed?”

“And cookies?”

Dr. Hamill smiles. “And
cookies.”

Missy beams at us. “I’m
going to go have milk and cookies with my dad.”

Enjoy it, Muppet. You
deserve it.

EPILOGUE

“There you are, Nemo. Not
like you to be late.”

“My apologies,” John Nemo
says to the man who, like himself, does not exist as far as the world at large is
concerned. To those who do know of him he is, simply, the Foreman. “I was
awaiting a report from our man inside Byrne.”

“Good news, I hope, for your
sake,” the Foreman says. “She’s quite displeased with how this operation has
played out. She’s looking for someone to blame.”

“There are several people in
line ahead of me to take that hit,” Nemo says.

“We’ll see.”

They pass through the
security checkpoint together. As usual, Nemo has to endure a vigorous round of
intense questioning before he is allowed to pass. His briefcase is
unceremoniously emptied, searched, sloppily repacked, and returned to him with
mumbled apology.

“You could have said
something, you know,” Nemo grouses.

“I could have.”

They ride the elevator to
the top level in silence.

The uppermost floor is home
to a single office, a vast expanse of polished black marble floors and windows
tinted so dark that the brightest day appears as dusk to those inside. There
are no bookshelves. There are no decorations. The furniture is sparse and
practical: two chairs of rich black leather, used too infrequently to be made
comfortable, set before a mahogany desk as large as a pool table, upon which
sits a phone and a laptop (also infrequently used). A third chair with a high
back sits behind the desk.

The woman in the tall chair
is more of a mystery than either of her lieutenants. Members of her security
force insist they have never witnessed her enter or leave the building. She
takes her meals alone (although the rumor mill maintains that she does not eat,
and indeed, no one in the complex’s kitchen facilities can recall ever sending
food to her office). She deals directly with few people outside a very small
inner circle, and from them she commands a loyalty that borders on fanaticism.
They respect her. They fear her more.

They know her name is
Sharona. They do not call her by her name.

“Gentlemen. Sit,” she says,
the invitation sounding like a command. “Mr. Nemo.”

“Ma’am.”

“I’ve read the reports on
your little experiment involving this Buzzkill Joy person. Tell me why I
shouldn’t find the outcome unsatisfactory.”

“I understand your concerns,
ma’am, and they are not unfounded, but I would like to assure you most
strenuously that any fallout has been isolated to Ms. Morana.”

Sharona narrows her eyes.
Nemo responds by presenting to her a folder.

“This contains a detailed
transcript of Ms. Morana’s statement to investigators,” he says. “You’ll notice
there is absolutely no mention of any outside force driving her decisions,
sound or otherwise.”

“Is there any mention of
what
did
drive her decisions?” the Foreman says. “Ma’am, Project Moreau
is a black ops government program. Even we didn’t know about it until a few
days ago —”

“You’re welcome,” Nemo
interjects.

“— which means there is no
way this girl could have known about it, much less ferret out the man in charge
of it. We can’t trust that such a gaping hole in her story will go unnoticed.”

Sharona turns her gaze back
toward Nemo.

“I would hardly call it a
hole in her story. The girl is insane. She slaughtered seven people at her high
school because, quote, they needed killing, unquote. She has an established
record of erratic behavior and inexplicable outbursts of violence, typically
directed toward people she regards as oppressive authority figures. Her doctor —
excuse me, her late doctor — fits the bill nicely.”

“That’s a sloppy cover,” the
Foreman says, “and that kind of sloppiness could one day compromise this entire
operation.”

“So says the man who lost a
regional base to the Protectorate and a group of teenagers,” Nemo retorts.

“Gentlemen,” Sharona says,
cowing the men with a look. “You are professionals. Act like it.”

“Ma’am, I will concede that
my colleague was successful in obtaining a considerable cache of data regarding
Project Moreau, and that that data should prove extremely useful to the cause,”
the Foreman says, “but he did so to indulge a personal whim.”

“Point of order, ma’am. We
did not have an established backup plan in the event the Bestiary failed to
liberate Archimedes,” Nemo says. “I merely took advantage of the opportunity
that arose from the botched operation to salvage the basic mission and realize
our objective.”

“And risked exposure,” the
Foreman counters.

“I repeat: We have not been compromised.
Further, ma’am, we’ve gained valuable intelligence on this Hero Squad, and now
have eight potential new operatives sitting in Byrne, waiting to be cultivated.
I believe the rewards we’ve reaped were worth the relatively minor risk.”

Sharona leans back in her
chair, her almond-shaped eyes narrowed to black slits that betray no emotion.

“Mr. Nemo,” she says. “While
the outcome was beneficial to this operation, your approach was ill-advised. Do
not take any such actions again without my express approval.”

“Yes, ma’am. Understood.”

“Foreman. These children —
the Hero Squad, was it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the Foreman
says. “Terrible name, I know.”

“This is the second time
they’ve interfered with us. We may have to reassess their threat rating.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll coordinate
with Mr. Nemo to update our current intel.”

“Very good. Gentlemen,” she
says, turning the back of her chair to her guests, “you are dismissed.”

They leave without offering
any formal farewells, as per their mistress’s preference. She doesn’t care for
niceties. She cares about performance. She cares about results. She cares about
her self-appointed mission:

To save the world from
itself.

BONUS!

You’re
not done yet! Go to author Michael Bailey’s official website (innsmouthlook.com)
to read a brand-new
Action Figures
short story featuring Dr. Enigma.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I knew back in September 2013, when I
released
Action Figures – Issue One: Secret Origins
, that any success I
might realize with this series would take time. Independent authors don’t have
the benefit of a large corporation to handle things like promotions and have to
do all the work themselves, often on no budget, and that can be an intimidating
process. I did my research, chose the best options for my budget and my
product, crafted a publicity strategy, and jumped in with both feet, but I
ultimately had no idea whether anything I did would yield results.