|
NOT
The World's Greatest Superheroes.....
|
| JLI: The Return of BWA-HAH-HA! #3 - August, Year 1 | by Bertram Gibbs |
Martian Manhunter |
Blue Beetle |
Booster Gold |
Plastic Man |
Meanwhile, at the Daily Planet building, Dick Grayson was walking towards the elevators, dressed in a pair of slacks, a dress shirt and a leather jacket, his uniform in the carry bag on his shoulder. He tapped the down button and entered the car, moving to the rear.
(J’onn? Dick here. No sign of them.)
(‘...and hold my head erect, and whistle a happy tune, so no one will suspect, I’m afraid . . .’)
(J’onn. I’ll get back with you. Dick out.)
He walked through the revolving doors to the street and into the sea of people heading to work in the heart of the city.
As Grayson elbowed his way into the oncoming tide, the concept of a teleporter accident began to sound acceptable.
Professor Emil Hamilton stared at the costumed trio standing in front of his desk; quartet, if you counted the floating golden egg that hovered behind the blonde one in the middle.
After he spoke with Superman, he expected the Batman to show up. If not the Dark Knight, then possibly Green Lantern, the Flash, or Steel. Part of his lascivious heart wanted Wonder Woman, but that was a repeatedly passing thought.
But not these three…
Or four.
An arm stretched in his direction, grasped his hand and pumped it a few times.
“Professor Hamilton? I’m Plastic Man. To my left is Booster Gold and behind him, his sidekick, Skeets.”
Hamilton could have sworn he heard the floating thing sniff.
“To my right, presently adjusting his shorts, is the Blue Beetle.”
“I can’t help it,” muttered Beetle. “It’s riding.”
“Superman sent us,” Plas said with a confident grin. “We’re here to investigate.”
Hamilton blinked several times. He shook his head a few times. “Excuse me? Did you say Superman sent you?”
“In a roundabout way,” muttered Beetle.
Plas cleared his throat. “Anyway, I think we should start at the anonymous tip you got.”
Hamilton stood up from behind his desk and pointed to a door in the corner. “Please come into my laboratory. I received a voice mail message Sunday evening advising me Luthor was up to something. I’ll play it back for you.”
They entered the cavernous laboratory. There were several tables filling the room, all with technicians working on a particular something. There was one object that floated about three feet above the table’s surface and three lab-coated technicians making notes on clipboards. Another wore protective goggles and fired a ray from a weapon of some unknown type at a wall of eight-inch steel. A small hole appeared and the ray shut off. You could see directly through to the other side. The technicians were too busy working to give any attention to Hamilton, or the super-heroes when they walked into the room.
“Wow!” Plas, Beetle and Booster whispered in unison.
“Yes,” said Hamilton walking across the room to a desk with a telephone on its corner. “It is a fascinating place to work in. I just ask that you please refrain from touching anything.”
“Sure, Prof.,” said Plas following him. He glanced over his shoulder and found Beetle and Gold still rooted to the spot, staring around the lab. He stretched his arms back and snapped a finger under each man’s nose, bringing them back to awareness. As he turned back to Hamilton, his eyes scanned the faces of the technicians, all completely focused on their tasks at hand. The one closest to the steel wall sent a vibration up his spine and a small smile appeared on his face.
Hamilton touched a button on the telephone’s base, activating the speaker, then hit the voice mail button.
“Professor Hamilton,” a computerized voice said. “Increase S.T.A.R. Lab’s security until after this Friday. Luthor is involved.”
The three men waited, but nothing followed. They turned to the professor.
“That’s all there was,” said Hamilton, shrugging.
“Not much to go on,” said Booster.
“Any way to trace the call?” asked Plas.
“Not at all,” sighed Hamilton. “We did determine that the call was made from outside and to my private line. That, and the obvious fact that the voice was computer generated.”
“What happens on Friday?” asked Beetle.
Hamilton frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Beetle, “the voice requested to increase the security until after Friday, alluding to something happening on that specific day.”
“Or this week,” offered Booster.
“Yeah,” Beetle said. “That too.”
“Might I suggest,” Skeets said in a very bored tone, “that one of you brain trusts review S.T.A.R. Lab’s daily schedule?”
Hamilton’s eyes bulged from behind his glasses. He took a step closer to the cyborg, removed his glasses and peered at its golden shell. Skeets spun around to face the professor.
“May I help you?” it said icily.
“Skeets,” Booster warned. “Don’t be rude.”
The cyborg spun around to face Gold. “Me? Rude?” it answered in a haughty and incredulous tone. “I am not the one inspecting the professor’s posterior!” It turned itself around and moved towards Hamilton who took two steps backwards. “If there is anything you would like to know, please ask!”
“Sorry, Professor Hamilton,” Booster said, opening his arms in a helpless fashion. “He’s never been the same since he watched ‘Arthur’.”
“’Would you like me to wash your . . . ‘“
“Skeets!” Booster growled.
The cyborg floated away humming to itself.
“I’ll pull up the schedule,” Hamilton said absently, moving toward his computer. In seconds, he had the lab’s itinerary on the screen.
Plas’ eyes bulged to the size of dinner plates behind his goggles. “That’s it?”
“That’s today’s schedule,” answered Hamilton.
“We’ll be here all day,” whispered Beetle.
“Possibly all week,” muttered Booster.
Skeets floated back to where Gold was standing. “Your Goldness, may I suggest I download the S.T.A.R. Lab schedule, then when we . . . hack the LexCorp system, we can compare data for a possible match?”
Booster patted the cyborg’s shining surface. “Skeets, old buddy!” he exclaimed. “That’s the best idea you’ve had all day!”
“The best idea I had was staying home and organizing your sock drawer,” it muttered.
“Is that all right, Professor?” asked Plas.
“Of course it is!” the professor exclaimed. “If Luthor is up to something, we must find out what it is.”
Plas made a sweeping motion with his hand. “Skeets. If you will?”
Skeets sniffed again and floated over to the computer. A slot opened on its side and a cable snaked out, entering the computer’s disc drive.
“This will take a few minutes,” the cyborg said to anyone listening.
Plas, Beetle, and the professor moved closer to watch the screen flicker and the itinerary change from today’s schedule to the next day’s as Skeets downloaded the information.
Meanwhile Booster was moving from table to table, scanning each device, his eyes wide, like a child in a toy store. He picked up something that looked like a pen. He held it in front of his eyes and turned it this way and that. Not finding anything of interest, he returned it to its holder.
His eyes caught a small circular device that floated above a table. Gold watched three of the technicians look over its sides, its bottom, and with a hand-held mirror, its top surface. Then they all converged on the computer at their station and compared information. Booster chuckled slightly and moved on to the next table. He glanced at a square object with lights on one side and was about to ask what the thing did, when an object on another table that resembled a rifle from the future diverted his attention.
“Now that’s what I’m looking for!” he exclaimed and picked it up. It felt light in his hands, but it also felt powerful. He adjusted the device in both hands, feeling an equal balance. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his friends and the professor still watching Skeets and the computer. He grinned.
“Boom!” he whispered. Booster spun on his heel and aimed in a different direction. “Pow!” He pirouetted and went down to one knee, raising the device close to his face. “C’mon and get some, Joker!” he whispered in a tough sounding voice. “I got your laugh track right here!”
“A-hem,” came a voice from over his shoulder. Booster looked up and saw Skeets hovering there.
“And how long have you been there?” Booster asked.
“Long enough to determine a 89% margin of error should you not return that device to its proper resting spot, Your Goldness.”
“Meaning?”
“Your finger,” it said.
Booster frowned. “What about my finger?”
“Its placement, your Goldness. It is dangerously close to that machine’s firing lever.”
Still holding the device, Booster turned and faced the cyborg, his face a mask of anger. “Okay!” he exclaimed. “That’s it. I’ve had about enough of your ‘tude, my friend. Let me set you straight on a few things. You are my helper. You are my assistant. You assist. That’s the key word here.”
“Assis . . .?“ Skeets repeated in a low voice.
“That’s what you do. You make sure my uniform is presentable. The info in your hard drive helps me solve a few cases. You cook my meals. You are my servant, ya got me? I keep you around for laughs!”
“Serv . . .?“ Skeets repeated.
“So quit it with the holier-than-thou attitude! I am in charge here!”
CLICK.
Booster looked down slowly and saw that his finger had depressed the firing mechanism. The device began to hum and Booster rested it on the table. Suddenly, it released a yellow beam of energy that shot across the room and into the steel wall. The wall began to glow.
Booster raised his hand. “Oh, Professor? Excuse me? May I have a word with you?”
“Of course, Mr. . . . “ Hamilton turned and his eyes widened and his mouth immediately dropped open. “… Gold.”
“Uh, this . . . device. What exactly does it do?”
“That . . . is a particle accelerator,” Hamilton said flatly, his eyes glued to the glowing steel wall.
“Particle accelerator,” Gold said nodding. “Right. And that does what exactly?”
Plas and Beetle stared at the wall, then to Booster.
“You touched something, didn’t you?” Beetle asked. Booster waved his hand.
“It vibrates the molecules of the test subject,” Hamilton said in a shocked monotone, his eyes never leaving the glowing wall.
“Vibrates,” Gold said nodding. “Got it. And?”
“It vibrates the molecules until they explode,” Hamilton said, turning to face him.
Booster nodded. “Okay. I’m a little fuzzy on ‘explode’. When you say ‘explode’, what kind of explosion are we talking about here? Minimal damage explosion? Take out this room explosion?”
“I would say a minimal damage explosion,” the professor replied absently, his face taking on an expression of interest at the glowing wall pulsated.
Booster nodded smiling. “Right. Minimal damage is a good thing.”
“But you see that device over there?” asked Hamilton.
“That one?” Gold said pointing to the box with the flashing lights.
“Yes,” Hamilton answered. “That one. That is a particle enhancer.” He raised a weak arm to the device that was still floating above the table. “And that somewhat oval device over there? That is a particle transmogrifier.”
Booster nodded. “Particle enhancer. Particle transmogrifier. And they do what?”
Picking up a clipboard, Hamilton consulted his notes. He looked over the clipboard at the particle accelerator. “Well, moving back to the functions of the particle accelerator, as I said, it will vibrate the test subject’s molecules until they explode.”
“Yes. Back to ‘explode’. Understood.”
“Theoretically, when that steel explodes, it will emit a pulse of radiation.”
Plas’ eyebrows raised past the top of his head. Beetle looked like he was getting a headache.
“Radiation?” Booster asked in a small voice.
It was Hamilton’s turn to sniff. “Harmless. But the radiation will activate the particle transmogrifier.”
“And that does what?” asked Plas.
“It alters the sub-atomic structure of a particular thing,” replied the professor.
“Doing what?” chimed in Beetle from behind his hand.
Hamilton’s eyes returned to the clipboard. “Well, in this case, increase the mass of radiation. And that will activate the particle enhancer, which will absorb the explosion caused by the particle accelerator, absorb the radiation coming from the particle transmogrifier, enhance the magnitude of the explosion and increase the degree of radiation, then return it back to the sender. Causing an explosion.”
“And once again,” Booster said patiently, “what type of explosion are we talking . . .?”
“Nuclear,” replied Hamilton.
“Nuclear?” asked Plas, Beetle and Booster.
“Yes,” Hamilton nodded. “At least five times the strength of your standard nuclear device’s explosion.”
Booster grinned. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll just erect a force field around the wall before it blows.” He extended his arm towards the glowing wall and clenched his fist.
And nothing happened.
Booster clenched his fist again, then began to press the concealed power buttons on his suit.
“I don’t understand it?” he cried, his voice rising an octave. “It should have…“
“Excuse me?” interrupted Hamilton. “But by chance, did you touch the particle destabilizer?”
“Particle . . . “
“It resembles a pen?”
“Yeah,” said Booster, his eyes staring at the wall, which now pulsated. “I picked it up. Why?”
“Well,” explained Hamilton, “The particle destabilizer causes a nullifying field around any power supply for fifteen minutes. Turning it off, so to speak.”
“Meaning I am temporarily powerless?” asked Booster.
“Exactly,” answered Hamilton.
Plas tapped Hamilton on the shoulder. “Professor,” he said. “If we get out of this alive, remind me to discuss your obsession with the word ‘particle’.”
Booster nodded. He turned to the cyborg floating off to one side. “Skeets?”
“‘Scattered pictures of a life I left behind’,” the machine sang in a decent baritone.
“Skeets?” Booster repeated.
“‘Misty water colored memories . . . ‘”
“Skeets?”
“‘Of the way we were’.”
“SKEETS!”
The cyborg spun in the air to face Gold. “Oh, yes your Boosterness? I’m sorry, but I was momentarily distracted.”
“Skeets,” Booster said softly, trying not to allow the panic he felt fill his voice. “Can you erect two force fields? One around the particle accelerator, and another around the particle enhancer?
“Well, your Boostership, I really don’t know about that,” it answered.
Booster’s eyes bulged from behind his goggles. “Skeets.”
“Being the excellent chef that I am, shall I whip up a tray of Chicken Cordon Bleu?”
“Skeets.”
“Or would you rather I return home and darn those holes in your sweat socks?”
“Skeets,” Gold repeated again.
Skeets dipped and stopped a nose away from Gold’s.
“Or would you like me to crack wise?” he said in a dark tone.
“SKEETS!” Booster screamed. “If you don’t put up that force field, people in a five block . . . “
“Fifteen,” Hamilton corrected.
Booster’s mouth opened, but all that came out was a small gasp. His head spun on his neck and he stared at the professor, who simply nodded sadly. He turned back to Skeets.
“In a fifteen block radius are going to die!”
“Oh. Fine,” sniffed Skeets. “Bring carbon based life forms into it. Be that way!”
He flew over to the glowing wall and hovered in front of it. Two antenna popped out of its shell and twin beams of light formed a protective bubble around the pulsating wall of steel. In seconds, the wall exploded, but all the room’s inhabitants heard was a muffled WHUMP! Skeets removed the bubble and the wall disintegrated to the floor. Three technicians began to circle the pile of dust, making notes on their clipboards. Skeets returned to Booster’s side.
“Better, your Goldship?” it asked.
“You know, you could have killed all of us with your stalling!” he hissed.
“Doubtable, Your Boostership,” the cyborg replied. “You see, I had already calculated how long it would take for that wall to explode and by my calculations, we had thirty-three more seconds. If there had been any danger, I would have erected the fields sooner.” It made a throat-clearing sound. “’Don’t tell me not to live; I simply got to. Don’t tell me not to sing; it’s me and not you. Don’t bring around a cloud to rain on my parade’,” it sang and floated away.
Booster stood there with his mouth open.
Beetle came over and laid a friendly hand on Gold’s shoulder. “I feel so much better knowing you’re in charge, Boost!” he said with a smile. “Ready to go?”
Booster just walked out the door, a stunned look on his face.
“Well, Prof.,” said Plas. “It’s been surreal. I’d thank you for a wonderful time, but the getting blown to smithereens part was a bit of a downer. We’ll call you as soon as we find something. Later!”
Plas followed his two partners out of the door, pausing to glance at the technicians across the room before Hamilton closed behind them. The professor turned to look at his lab when something long and pale skimmed across the floor, brushing slightly against his shoe.
Plas’ head went under a technician’s lab coat, down his sleeve and out of its opening, causing the man to yelp. Plas stared at the bruises on the man’s chin and cheekbone, then directly into his eyes.
“Have an accident, Cupcake?” he asked with a grin.
The technician nodded, staring at the head in front of him.
“What kind?”
“Wha-wha-what?” he stuttered.
“Let’s try this again for the mentally impaired,” Plas said, his grin no longer present. “What kind of accident?”
“I-I fell down a flight of stairs,” he replied.
“Where?” Plas asked.
“In my house,” the man said.
“Loose carpet?”
“Uh, why yes,” the man said with a nervous grin. “Yes, the carpet on the stairs was loose.”
Plas nodded and slipped his head down the man’s sleeve and through the lab coat.
The technician turned and saw Plas standing in front of him, his hands on his hips.
“S’funny,” he said.
The man stared at the super-hero, waiting for him to finish. He said no more.
“What is funny?” he asked finally.
Plas clasped both hands behind his back and began to pace in front of the technician. The only thing that was out of the ordinary, was Plas’ head remained stationery, his eyes glued to the technician’s.
“Knew this cat named Wilkes back in the day,” he said. “Got in deep with the loan sharks. Owed them a lot of dough. Problem was, he didn’t have it. But…“ the moving body stopped and held up one finger. “ . . . he could get it. And that would take a few days. So Wilkes went to the sharks and told them of his problem; that there would be a delay in getting the bucks back to them. You see, he was hoping that they would be understanding. And surprisingly enough, they were. They didn’t kill him, which would not have been good business, so they gave him the once over. A lot of body shots, a lot of below the belt action, and one or two shots to the head. Really painful, body shots. Bruises. Small spots of internal bleeding; stuff like that. It goes away, but not for a while. But that’s the thing about body shots,” Plas said, his body resuming its pace. “You only know they’re there if you move around sharply, or take off your clothes and see the discolored sections. Now there are guys I know who can take a punch, and keep on taking ‘em. Got this high threshold to pain. Wilkes was like that. That’s why the sharks gave him a few head shots. You see, every time you pass a mirror or your reflection in a window, you sort of automatically look at yourself. The bruises to the face was to remind Wilkes of his . . . obligation.”
“And you find your friend being beaten funny?” the man asked.
“Naw,” said Plas. “What I find funny is that those head shots Wilkes got look exactly like yours.”
“Oh,” the technician replied, turning back to the clipboard.
“When I said ‘funny’,” Plas said, “I meant funny-odd, not funny-ha-ha. Ribs sore?” he asked, his finger snaking behind the technician and poking him in the side. The man winced and moved away. Plas stared at him and nodded.
“Gotta watch those carpeted steps,” he said. “Very dangerous . . . “ His head stretched over until it was in front of upper pocket of the man’s lab coat. “Kingston,” Plas finished with a wink.
He grinned and slid under the door and out of the laboratory…
