In the Land of Paramount roams Star Trek; and on the Fields created by Decker run Star Traks. A couple of Animals within the Traks Herd are branded BorgSpace and are owned by Meneks. Thank you those who contributed superheroes (and villains) for this story.
Superhero for Rent, Cheap - Part II
Recap -
Cube #347 had traced the Lock Artifact to the Free Rock Stone, an inhabited asteroid in a stable orbit around the central wormholes, and not associated with either Arrival or Departure. However, a unique radionucleogenic radiation field has mutated the majority of the population, giving them superhero and supervillain attributes. Naturally, both hero and villain populace tend to fall in the "unique" category, which includes items such as avocado ice-cream and the Cube #347 sub-collective. Losing patience with their welcome hail, an expedition has been sent to the Stone city of Poindexter, chance meeting an Evil banana...
*****
Dr. Ban'Anna turned and strolled briskly away. "If you are interested, come on. I'm sure the Zero Heroes will be along shortly. Always late. They seem to think they rate good enough to deserve me as a nemesis. HAH! Miraculous Man is so clueless concerning anything beyond his reflection in a mirror he doesn't know his 'Council of Justice' is called Zero Heroes by everyone, including his own members." The bipedal banana paused. "Now, where did I tell Jeeves to park the Bananamobile? Oh yes, on Captain street. Follow along. I offer a good dental plan as one of my incentives."
{There is a street named my subdesignation,} smugly commented Captain, watching with the rest of the sub-collective in orbit.
Second, one of the six drones sent to the Stone city Poindexter to find and retrieve the Lock Artifact, had a sarcastic reply which demanded to be used, but other matters required his attention. Internal matters. All of the sixsome, including himself, were experiencing diagnostic faults. The problems were not dangerous to continuing self-functionality, but 1'-3' nanoprobes, those which were assimilation specific, were indicating problems. Specifically, a warning suggested degradation of the artificial DNA, plasmids which were injected into an assimilatee's cells to begin the assimilation process through hijacking the body's own systems to build more nanoprobes. The 5' machines remained in perfect working condition, but that type of nano was for body maintenance, not assimilation.
{We can not assimilate anybody,} stated the obvious by 41 of 83. She looked down at the back of her right hand, as if the problem resided there.
"Are you coming?" called Dr. Ban'Anna over the noise of bustling crowd. He had just noticed the drones had not budged from their spot. "You are blocking the sidewalk, you know!"
Second waved one hand in a "wait a minute, we are coming" gesture.
Said Doctor, {It could be the radionucleogenic radiation. Little, bitty, tiny, weenie naked DNA strands in nanoprobes may not be happy. I require a sample.}
The six Borg stepped back half a pace as a seventh individual materialized in their midst. {I did not mean me, personally,} complained Doctor. "But, then again..." he continued as he began to rubberneck, focusing on the few people walking pets, animals which were as variable in form as the owners which led them.
"Analysis," demanded Second.
Doctor clicked his incisors as he stabbed each drone in turn with an instrument removed from a compartment in his upper arm, drawing blood. The small hypospray-like object was returned to storage. Doctor blinked. "Radionucleogenic radiation hypothesis positive. Nonlethal. Reversible once removed from Stone's influence. Assimilation not possible while on surface." The conclusion was unusually formal, clipped, and lacked Doctor's normal vet commentary. The influence by his hierarchy lessened as data processing was completed.
"Yoo-hoo!" called Dr. Ban'Anna again. He waved one yellow hand over his nonhead.
{Damn,} echoed in the dataspaces as the sub-collective digested the findings of drone maintenance. Doctor was not retrieved from the surface, joining the away mission just in case the radiation field began to affect other systems, calling for immediate diagnosis. One by one, the group filed after the walking banana, Second in the lead. Data was required concerning the local situation, and the ambulatory fruit was as good a source as the drones were likely to find.
Dr. Ban'Anna smiled. "Wonderful!" He paused as he counted. "Seven? I thought there were six. No matter. The Bananamobile is large enough, although it may be a squeeze."
Second followed the banana around the corner onto Captain street. The target they appeared to be aimed at was a multistory building which cars were entering and exiting. Dr. Ban'Anna slackened his pace to position himself next to Second. "So, how long you been in town? I do like the fact you are all a matched set, more or less."
Replied Second, "Less than ten minutes."
Dr. Ban'Anna waited expectantly for more conversation. He was not obliged. "Okaaaay. Not the chatty type, I guess. Well, then, powers. I need to know if you have the right qualities for thugging. I am a growing Evil Outfit. Within two years I expect to expand to Grothet, maybe Scotch."
"Three of us are equipped with disrupter devices. All of us have enhanced voluntary and cardiovascular muscle systems. Personal shielding against energy weaponry is another standard Borg option. Bones are reinforced. Tritanium armor resists projectiles, but only 41 of 83 and 106 of 300 have torso carapace density and thickness suitable to stop high velocity projectiles. We are interconnected to each other, able to share adaptations and thoughts. The typical Borg drone also has high regenerative capabilities."
Dr. Ban'Anna nodded, then ticked off a summary on his fingers, "Let's see if I understand correctly. Among the seven of you, there is super strength, telepathy, heat beams, stopping bullets and particle weapons, and super healing. Standard thug package deal. Come, Jeeves should be on the second floor."
They reached the parking garage. Stretching into a single file once more, the banana led Borg up a stairwell to the story directly above street level. The Bananamobile was immediately obvious.
The vehicle was a stretch limousine, painted bright yellow. One might mistake it for an unusual cab except for the absence of a taxi roof light. It lay grounded on concrete in an extra long parking stall. A sign reading "Reserved - Evil Geniuses Only" was tacked to the wall, indicating the filled spot as well as six others currently unoccupied. As the drones watched, a long vehicle with shiny chrome plate pulled into a slot.
"Oh gods," snorted Dr. Ban'Anna, "the Silver Bullet. He talks too much. Let's step into the limo before he gets out and shoots off his mouth. Get it? Silver Bullet, shoots off his mouth?" Silence. Stony glares. Puns were irrelevant, especially when they were idiotic. "Ouch. Tough crowd. Jeeves! Open up!" The back door to the Bananamobile opened. The Borg crowded uncomfortably inside.
The Bananamobile floated to operational height and backed out of the parking space. It drove down an exit ramp to street level, then turned into traffic. After a silent three block ride, the car turned into another garage, this one the ground five stories of a much larger apartment complex.
Jeeves opened the door to let Dr. Ban'Anna and Borg out of the vehicle. He then popped the truck, allowing 78 of 212, who had been unable to crowd into the limo proper, to exit.
"Thank you, Jeeves," said Dr. Ban'Anna. "We will be up in the apartment, possibly the lab."
Jeeves was a small, dapper man, dressed in a conservative drivers' uniform. He appeared to be perfectly normal, exuding an aura which practically shouted his profession to drive people from point A to point B with elegance and poise. In other words, he was the perfect, stereotypical limousine driver meant for those exclusive people who have so much money they live in a reality where "price tag" has no meaning.
Jeeves nodded, "Yes, sir. I will go wash the car, sir. Sir, please be reminded of my contract renewal meeting next week. My contracting agency will be expecting you to sign on a 2% raise in my salary." The man's accent was unplaceable, barely noticeable, and lent a decisive edge of sophistication.
Sighed Dr. Ban'Anna, "Yes, I know."
Jeeves bowed slightly, then returned to the limo and drove away. The car disappeared, obstructed from view by support pillars and ranks of vehicles of various color and design parked in "Reserved for ---" spots.
"I am sorry about that," apologized Dr. Ban'Anna, "but Jeeves is a good driver. I rent him from Jeeves, Inc. I contract out a Richards - butler - and Igor - mad scientist assistant - as well. All have been reminding me of late about their contracts. Pshaw, as if I would not renew. I don't have time to break in a new staff.
"Up to my apartment we go."
Dr. Ban'Anna ushered the Borg into a huge cargo elevator. With room to space, one could conservatively transport three fully grown elephants. As the gate crashed closed, the banana stabbed a bright yellow button with a stylized "B," one of many eclectic buttons replacing the normal double or triple row of numbers. The elevator smoothly rose, gliding to a stop about a minute later. As per elevator etiquette, no one spoke; and even the drones were mentally silent. The doors opened.
Dr. Ban'Anna's dwelling was a luxury split-level studio apartment, big enough to put most stand-alone family housing to shame. Expensive furniture fought for space with reams of paper depicting schemes in various steps of planning. Prototype models of machines with indiscernible function decorated tables and countertops, and formed a neat row on the fireplace mantle. The impression was of ordered clutter, of a personality which flitted from project to project as boredom or frustration set in. Waiting next to the elevator was a man who was Jeeves' identical twin, excepting butler's tuxedo was substituted for chauffeur uniform.
"Hello sir. Guests? Shall I prepare nibblets? Refreshments?" asked the Jeeves' doppleganger.
Dr. Ban'Anna looked inquisitively at the Borg, one eyebrow (how could a banana possess eyebrows, or hair for that matter?) lifted.
Second responded, "We are Borg. Only small beings require liquid or solid sustenance. We are not small beings."
"That is a 'no,' Richards. And, yes, Jeeves has already reminded me about the contract meeting next week," said Dr. Ban'Anna.
Richards managed to look affronted without actually changing his expression. "I was not thinking of anything so crass, sir. Shall I retire, or will you need me longer?"
Dr. Ban'Anna wiggled his fingers in dismissal. "Go do whatever you do, Richards. If I need you, I'll call."
"Yes, sir." he responded. With a bow, Richards silently disappeared.
"An old family," commented Dr. Ban'Anna in response to questions a proper (or improper) Borg would never dare to ask, "is the owner of Jeeves, Inc. An interesting family, if I may use the term loosely. The original Jeeves - that wasn't his name, by the way - had the ability to split himself in two. Instant clone. And he came up with a doozy of a business plan. As the years went on, various lines somewhat diverged so that the Richards came into being, and later the Igors. The Igors are hunchbacked, of course, although I understand it is from cosmetic surgery; otherwise they resemble Jeeves' and Richards. There are five additional clone lines Jeeves, Inc. rents out, but let me tell you, small differences aside, all have the same focus - money and domination of the genteel male domestic market. Evil, Good, it is all the same to them, as long as you can afford the salary. Unfortunately, no one will take you seriously on this rock unless you employ from Jeeves, Inc." The banana sighed over the unfairness of life. "Moving on, I think I have some thug employment applications over on the kitchen counter."
Dr. Ban'Anna left the drones to ogle the apartment as he diligently sorted through a small mountain of paper. Finally he found what he wanted, picking them up as well as a convenient pen.
"We do not require employment," stated Second as Dr. Ban'Anna turned to regard the now scattered drones. As the others inspected the premises, returning images for communal consumption, Second remained as a focus for the Evil genius' attention.
"Oh?" said Dr. Ban'Anna in surprise. "They why are you here? What /did/ you require?"
41 of 83 picked up a small gizmo which resembled a bird constructed entirely of gears and rubber bands. She hastily replaced it as it began to make quiet cooing noises.
"We require the Lock Artifact," said Second.
Dr. Ban'Anna scrunched his face up in confusion. A perplexed banana is an interesting sight. He did not notice 41 of 83's transgression. "The what?"
"Lock Artifact."
"Never heard of it."
It was Second's turn to be baffled, a sensation sweeping through the sub-collective. The emotion did not show on any of the present Borg faces, however. Well, except for 41 of 83, who received an elbow to her side by 75 of 203 as a reminder to keep a blank face.
"It is an Artifact," prompted Second. "We do not know its precise appearance, but we believe it is, at most, this big." He held out his hands to indicate a vague breadbox-sized item.
Dr. Ban'Anna placed the end of the pen he was holding in his mouth and proceeded to chew it in contemplation. Although the habit was very unEvil, it was also well practiced given the toothmarks already present. "Artifact. Artifact. Artifact," he muttered. "No, doesn't ring a bell. Wait a minute. Something to do with AD systems domination?" He looked at Second for confirmation, which was provided with a curt nod. "Out of my league, then. Why rule over a star system you can never visit? I leave Stone, and poof! Or, rather, squelch. I will expire horribly if I leave the influence of this rock. My horizons only include Stone. However, assuming you are correct and your Lock Artifact is here..."
"Borg are always correct," interjected Second.
"...then I expect The Vault will have it," continued Dr. Ban'Anna, raising voice volume to exert dominance in the conversation. It was an Evil Villain thing.
"The vault?"
Dr. Ban'Anna shook his head. Actually, his upper body swayed back and forth, but the meaning was similar. "No. The Vault. Capital letter 'V.' All the do-dads and devices the Stone Council doesn't know what to do with goes there. Shoe Woman collected a Mind Ray from me last year, and it is up for bail now, which is why I was trying to rob that bank in the first place. You see, while I have plenty of money, more than enough to bail my Mind Ray out, it is all personal fortunes - investments, inheritance, gambling, counterfeiting, business profit, money laundering, and the like. I have to have money that has been certified stolen to post bail on my machine."
Second blinked; the other drones in the group blinked. What a bizarre system. The Borg had assimilated many cultures with an attendant wide variety of governments and rules, but this glimpse into Stone bureaucracy indicated a system more peculiar than usual.
"That is an odd law," commented 75 of 203 before brain-mouth connection was properly censured. He returned to the diagram he was holding, hastily flipping it as he realized the picture was upside-down.
Dr. Ban'Anna shrugged. "It works. So, how about this plan? You help me get the money I need to bail out my Mind Ray. In return, I'll take several of you into The Vault to help carry it out when I claim it. After all, I'm a certified Evil Genius, and cannot expect to do manual labor outside a laboratory setting. I can stall the board inspector who will accompany us into The Vault long enough for you to wander around and find your item. You nick it, hide it in one of the struts of my Mind Ray, and we all walk out. The Stone Council will never know."
The sub-collective digested the proposed plan, consensus finding holes large enough to drive a Cargo-class cube through. Unfortunately, alternative plots had less chance of success (Weapons' suggestions were ignored). The decision cascade took less than five seconds, but it was enough time for Dr. Ban'Anna to begin to fidget when he did not receive an immediate answer.
Second stopped gazing at empty space, focusing attention on the large banana. "We accept."
Dr. Ban'Anna instructed Jeeves drop the drones off in front of Free Rock Bank. The bank was not large enough to warrant having an entire building named after it; and, like many similar establishments, was merely a street level tenant of a much larger complex. It had huge glass windows proclaiming its name and a large set of double doors to provide access, a virtual twin to Poindexter First Bank, or any of numerous other banks. There seemed to be at least one such bank per building, an observation Dr. Ban'Anna confirmed.
"I can't actually participate in the raid," confided the banana during final instructions, "as I gave up that right when I applied for my Evil Mastermind license. I do remember the heady days of field work, though! Don't worry, if you are in and out quickly, no superhero or superhero groups will have time to respond; and unless you are particularly stupid, the two security guards won't be a problem neither.
"All banks have sufficient Vault bail money. It is the law. Just tell the teller that you require funds for a Class B transaction. Remember, Class B. Be sure to request a receipt with my name on it to show the Vault bail authorities. Banks usually try to offer you dye packs, so avoid them. If you throw away the first bags they give you and redemand a Class B transaction, that works best.
"That's all that there is to it! Have fun! Oh, and do not kill bystanders, bank personnel, or guards. Minor injuries to the latter are permissible, but I can be held liable in case of wrongful death. So many rules anymore! So many lawyers! My great-grandpa, Villain that he was, would turn over in his grave!"
And so it was, and so they were in front of Free Rock Bank. The Borg went inside.
The interior was that of banks everywhere across the universe, baring the fact many of the customers wore outlandish, often skin-tight, costumes. An eight-person line queued behind a "Wait here" sign. Naturally, only one teller was actually working, other bank employees clustered near a door leading to the breakroom or accomplishing "important" paper shuffling. The two security guards lounged in their assigned places, expressions reflecting boredom. The woman posted next to the door appeared perfectly normal except for bright orange skin; and the man next to the inevitable half-dead potted palm looked to have a planty quality himself in an inarticulateable way.
The Borg stepped into line.
Twenty minutes later, all seven drones, Second in the lead, approached the teller's position. Grumbles arose within the queue from customers perceiving a breech in bank etiquette. The teller's eyes reflected annoyance, although her lips continued to curl in the artificial smile of employees who have to work with a trying public.
"How may I help you?" asked the teller. She was one of the minority base Hunam form. Her dress was conservative; and a small name badge labeled her Krisi.
The wait in line had provided more than sufficient time to discuss robbery details. Plans had been proposed and rejected. The idea of "robbery" itself was new as Borg did not steal anything. Items seized from other species already belonged to the Collective, according to a convoluted system of justification. Several options were finally deemed acceptable. Stylistically, Option A was the best, and so was initiated.
"We are Borg," said the seven in unison to the teller. "We require funds for a Class B transaction. We additionally require a receipt for funds to be made out to Evil Dr. Ban'Anna. You will comply."
Krisi blinked, unfazed by the demand. "A withdrawal, then. I'll ring the manager." She pushed a button at her station, then proceeded to type something into her computer. "A moment, please."
The Borg looked at each other. This was too civilized, too easy. The line of waiting customers shuffled restlessly.
A small man whose superpowers, if he had any, tended towards situations involving currency and financial transactions, hurried out of the doorway leading to the inner sanctum of the bank. He was carrying two shopping bags and had a big smile plastered on his face. "Good afternoon, gentlemen or gentleladies, whichever is appropriate," he said as he reached the teller's location. "Here is money for a Class B transaction. Now, what was the recipient name, again?"
75 of 203 began tapping a foot. This was taking too long. The bank was stalling, just as Ban'Anna had predicted.
Second accepted the bags, peered at the contents for a long second, then threw the package across the room. Paper money spilled out, including several bundled wads which hit the floor with a hollow, noncurrency sound. "Unacceptable," snarled Second in his best mobster voice. He failed to sound like anything except a Borg, maybe a Borg with a head cold if imagination was stretched. "Dye packets are unacceptable. We demand money for a Class B transaction, and a receipt made out to Evil Dr. Ban'Anna. We demand these things now. You will comply."
The manager shook his head and sighed. "Well, one has to try such things." He reached under the counter and retrieved two satchels, black with silver lettering proclaiming "Official: Class B" on the sides. As he handed the bags over, he added, "Your receipt will be along shortly. Please thank Dr. Ban'Anna for using Free Rock Bank. He is a valued customer."
From the increasingly fidgety line, a masculine voice declared, "Enough is enough! I come here on my break to deposit a check, and the bank can't even open up a second window. And now, these idiots are robbing the place. While I cannot fight the bank system, I can confront the minions of Evil Dr. Ban'Anna. It is time for Miraculous Man and the Council of Justice to swing into action!"
The manager groaned, as did the teller. "Oh, dear," he said, "the Zero Heroes. If you can hold them off for about five minutes, your receipt will be ready. The printer is a bit balky. Don't worry about the guards. They are only here to stop unprofessional thugs with dreams of grandeur. We do have standards to uphold."
"Is this action wise?" asked the Mutant Gerbil. "We are missing three of our members, after all. Clyde works nights, so he is sleeping right now; and Marta is having one of her bad hair days. Our brickish friend Floyd, last I heard, was passed out in a bar on Hero Way. As it stands right now, we are quite outnumbered." The gerbil paused. "Besides, you said our group lunch meeting would only take half an hour, and we've already spent twenty of those minutes in this damn line for you to run your 'quick' errand before we eat."
Conservatively clothed Miraculous Man paid no attention to his large rodent companion. His "guaranteed to tear off in time of crisis" suit was giving him problems. At the moment, only the lower half of the costume he always wore under his normal clothes was exposed, giving him the appearance of a jacketed businessman in tights.
Exclaimed Doctor, attention riveted upon only one Zero Heroes member, "Oh, look how cuuuuuute it is! Big, puffy cheeks! Soft fur! It even looks a little like my species, only taller and so much more cuter! We /must/ take it back to the cube with us!"
{Sit on him,} snapped Second. 75 of 203 and 40 of 46 moved to comply, tripping Doctor and kneeling on him despite internal protests.
The people in the line, other than the abridged Council of Justice - Miraculous Man, Blade, The Paranoid, and the Mutant Gerbil - shifted towards the wall in order to give combatants room. Various glances were passed between customers, unvocalized warnings not to sneak ahead in the queue once the commotion was resolved. The two security guards huddled in a quiet knot, talking. Finally one reached into a pants pocket to retrieve a stack of small plastic wafers, each with a number on it. The placer marks were handed out to forestall future confrontations when the line reformed.
"Quick," ordered Miraculous Man, "Paranoid, tell us what they are planning!" He had removed coat in the normal manner and was now struggling to attach his cape.
Blade drew the scimitars which were habitually sheathed at her waist, giving a smile which was best described as 'evil' despite her 'good' standing with the Hero and Villain Affairs Office.
Second impassively watched. Following the orders of their hierarchy, of the sub-collective, the three weapons drones stepped to the forefront of the Borg group.
"They?" asked The Paranoid in alarm, eyes behind glasses bulging as he hunted for government operatives or mysterious men in black. "They are here?"
Miraculous Man snorted contemptuously, "They! The mechanical men Dr. Ban'Anna has hired to rob this hardworking bank." He paused briefly, striking a heroic pose for security cameras positioned in the ceiling corners.
The Paranoid peered myopically at the Borg. He narrowed his eyes in concentration and rubbed index fingers against his temples. "I see...I see...I see..." he muttered. His eyes suddenly popped open. The Paranoid screamed in a high pitched tone fit for a B-grade horror movie actress. "There's trillions, more, of them, and they are all out to get me!" He turned and fled out the door, hands waving frantically over his head.
The Mutant Gerbil watched the scene, commenting, "I think all the aluminum foil has finally snapped him, poor fellow. I only count seven of them, and one's a rather handsome chap, if I do say so myself. Too bad we have to swat them, if we can. We are even more outnumbered now."
Asked Miraculous Man, shaken by Toby's abrupt retreat, "Um, do you have anything in your pouches which might even the score?"
"Right away," answered the Mutant Gerbil. He opened his mouth and reached in with one hand, fishing around. Much to the Borg's surprise, the hand emerged with a large phaser rifle, one too big to comfortably fit in cheek pouches without causing a noticeable bulge. What did the rodent have? Extra-dimensional pockets? "How's this?"
"Perfect," said Miraculous Man. "Let's kick some ro-butt."
41 of 83 was offended by the remark. "Excuse us, but we are Borg, a collective cybernetic entity, not robots. Your pun does not parse."
Blade's reply was to shriek and charge, scimitars flashing. "Feed my pretties! They are thirsty!"
As the giant gerbil and two Hunams advanced, the three weapons drones to the forefront raised their arms to aim disrupters. At least one of the watching customers held a small video camera and was quietly filming a home movie. Doctor lay still, making due with the view from those drones who happened to have the Mutant Gerbil within visual perception.
"Your receipt is ready," chimed the manager. Second glanced in the man's direction, seeing a small scrap of paper waved. He grabbed it.
{We leave. Doctor, make one wrong move, and you will be performing reconstructive surgery on yourself,} said Second.
Miraculous Man proclaimed, "You will not leave here, foul henchmen of evil!"
The Blade paused, wincing. "That was horrible, Max. You've been reading 'Superheroes for Dummies' again, haven't you?" She took a step forward, leading sword aimed at the Borg nearest her.
106 of 300 moved the minimum distance to the side to dodge, then caught the woman's wrist. Simultaneously, 41 of 83 captured the other hand, preventing the second scimitar from cutting. Together the two of them applied pressure to tendons, loosening grip and causing swords to clatter to the floor. It was an impressive feat of cooperation, if one was unfamiliar with Borg; and if one knew of Borg and Cube #347's mental status, one would be doubly awestruck. Blade shrieked in dismay as her finely balanced weapons were stepped on and bent by heavy drone bodies.
"My babies!" she cried, dropping to her knees to beat ineffectively with closed fists against armored knees and shins. "Move! Move! I must save my babies!"
Allowed to regain his feet, Doctor commented, {She has an illogical obsession. Baby talk to irrelevant objects indicates mental instability.} The near four thousand wordless replies he gained were universally colored with irony. Doctor's nose wrinkled in puzzlement.
Second gave assent for everyone to leave. He could see the yellow Bananamobile through the bank's glass windows. It waited by the curve in the "Evil Withdrawal - 20 minutes" zone. An unheard argument was occurring between Jeeves and a police officer, the latter wielding a fat ticket book. The robbery had required significantly more time than 20 minutes.
"You can not leave?" said Miraculous Man, words more pleading question than authoritative statement.
Second stalked forward before 78 of 212 could shoot the obnoxious obstacle. "We are leaving. Now. You are in our way. Move." Without waiting for compliance, he pushed the red and black costumed Hunam out of the way. Surprised, Miraculous Man lost his balance and hit the ground with his rear, hard.
The filming customer snickered, commenting to a neighbor that the tape was a sure winner for "AD Funniest Home Videos."
The Mutant Gerbil was too engrossed with the sight of an apparent near cousin to help Miraculous Man recover footing and dignity; and Blade was staring at her bent scimitars, crying as if she had just lost her only children. The blubberings were swiftly turning into dark vows of revenge, including descriptions of bodily mutilation which caused 41 of 83 and 106 of 300 to increase speed, passing Second on the march to the door.
Several customers and both security guards applauded, pleased at the performance. As the doors closed behind the seven Borg, the former were already restoring the line, ignoring the defeated Council of Justice. The bank personnel, meanwhile, returned to their various activities, none of which included opening a second teller line.
Jeeves gave a patronizing smile to the police officer, shrugging. He then quickly got into the limo. Doors slammed, and the Bananamobile drove away.
*****
"What took you so long?" asked Johnny of Terry as The Vault anteroom door opened.
Terry entered. He had a secure grip on his younger brother's much smaller hand. "He's like a dog. I had to take him to the park and run him around to tire him out."
"I'm not a dog," declared Jeb, "and I'm gonna tell Mom you said I'm a dog." The boy's face scrunched up in defiance.
Muttered Terry, "You tell Mom I said you were a dog, and I'll tell her about that sugar stash you're not supposed to have."
Jeb heaved a sigh as his threat was neutralized. He shook off his brother's grip and headed towards his cache of handheld video games.
Johnny grimaced, "I'm glad I don't have siblings."
"Sisters are worse," countered Gary, "especially when it is my sister. Are we going to study, or what?"
Terry nodded, joining his Senior comrades at the table. Underneath, Cloe the Wonder Chicken clucked contentedly to herself as she pecked at some scattered cracked corn feed.
"I demand revenge!" raged Janine as she waved a pair of bent scimitars. "Look what they did to my babies! Mutilation! Baby-killers!"
Max tried to calm the irate beast in the middle of his office. One of the senior law partners was going to notice soon. "Calm down, Janine. Maybe there is a way to work this out."
"Coward! I don't know why I don't cleave you in two!" Actually, she did know, but she would not admit to her attraction to Max (rather, Miraculous Man) unless forced under extreme duress.
The Mutant Gerbil slipped into the room. He answered Max's questioning glance, ignoring the on-going rant. "I couldn't find Toby. He's likely in one of his 'safe houses,' but I didn't have time to check them all. If you ask me, I still think it is aluminum foil poisoning."
"No one asked you, furball," snapped Janine. The Mutant Gerbil rolled his eyes.
Max came to a conclusion, silently priding himself on his decisiveness. It was a trait he read all the successful superhero leaders possessed. "Fine. Janine, Gerbil, go track down the rest of the team. Meet at my apartment at 8 PM. Dr. Ban'Anna withdrew a Class B transaction, but I know something that may foil his plans. If so, I know where he will be tonight. Will that work, Janine?"
Janine grinned a toothy grin fit for a rabid crocodile. "Yes."
*****
All were gathered in Dr. Ban'Anna's spacious living room. Second and the banana were next to an unfolded card table piled high with paper money removed from the two bank satchels, while the remainder of the drone force were statues situated in a rough line against one wall. Internally, the drones were much more animated than their outer facade indicated, only shallow chest movements or occasional eyeblink showing they were more than unusual modern sculpture.
Dr. Ban'Anna glared at the money, then began to pace back and forth, hands clasped behind his flaring lab coat. A well-worn grove in the carpet showed such deliberations were common. The banana stopped. "Not enough. The price of a Class B transaction went up by ten thousand credits last week. Damn the Council, trying to gouge hardworking Evils. It all stems from the promise of no new taxes; and thus they are trying to skirt the issue by raising fees. The Evil labor unions won't stand for it, of course, and the raise will eventually be rescinded, maybe in a year or so. However, that doesn't help right now. I suspect the bank hadn't updated the satchels under the counter yet. It is their fault, but I can't do anything about it except complain."
"We will steal more money," proclaimed Second. The Borg were fuzzy on the concept of currency, having no need of it in a Collective society, but knew that it was a strong motivation for many small species. The Borg lining the wall spun as one in preparation to leave the premises and rob another bank. Other than 75 of 203 turning the wrong direction, the move was impressively coordinated.
Muttered Dr. Ban'Anna, "Won't work. An Evil of my standing is only allowed one Class B transaction per week. My hearing for a rank upgrade doesn't occur for five months."
"Unacceptable. We will procure additional funds."
Dr. Ban'Anna waved his hands in negation. "No, no, no, no, no! That would ruin me! An Evil has to abide by the rules until he or she reaches Grand Master Ultra Evil Nemesis standing. However, there may be another way. Risky, but possible." If the banana had had eyebrows, he would have been waggling them.
The six Borg turned, standing motionless once more. Second stared intently at the grinning fruit. "Explain to us. Now. We will listen."
Dr. Ban'Anna rubbed his hands together in anticipation as he stared at the monstrous blocky building. His customary white lab coat had been substituted for one of black trimmed in yellow, with a stylized banana motif edging the bottom hem. "Oh, I just love climatic moments," exclaimed the evil banana. "Hands-on work is such fun. Thinking up dastardly plans or tinkering in the lab gets old after awhile."
It was evening. Dr. Ban'Anna and the Borg stood in front of a massive edifice constructed of large stone block almost, but not quite, resembling granite. Steps built on the scale of giants led up to a door flanked by tremendous white columns. The architecture was "showcase government," a common form of many worlds where money was not an issue when considering the best way to awe foreign governments and impress tourists. Floodlights illuminated dully glinting metal letters high on the building - The Vault.
Second peered nervously at the conspicuous Bananamobile parked in a zone marked "Vault Raiding - 8 PM to 3 AM - Evil Only." The next reserved stretch of curb included a sign reading "Raid Foiling - 8 PM to 3 AM - Good Only." Increasingly the Borg were coming to realize this society operated on utterly different tenants than the rest of the universe. Perhaps radionucleogenic radiation had not only affected generations of DNA, but minds as well.
106 of 300 narrowed his eyes as he looked at the glass doors. "The building is closed," he announced. "Operational hours are 8 AM to 6 PM."
"Of course it is closed," spoke Dr. Ban'Anna. "State officials do not desire interruptions during business hours. That might disrupt tourists on holiday and visiting school groups. Let's go. Come along." The banana stalked up the stairs, motioning for the Borg to follow.
The plan had sounded simple when Dr. Ban'Anna had proposed it. A quick raid, a swift smash-and-grab. The Borg, with the evil banana directing, would break into The Vault, overcome what was described as a superhero security force so down on their luck they needed the pittance Rent-A-Cop wages, mosey into The Vault proper, and finally find the Lock Artifact. In return for the Artifact, Dr. Ban'Anna's Mind Ray was also to be snatched.
Weapons agreed with the plan on all points. While he strongly desired to be involved directly, he had to be satisfied with the three of his hierarchy already on the surface.
When Second had queried Dr. Ban'Anna as to what prevented the Borg from entering without support of an Evil Genius, the answer had been straight forward. Without Evil sponsorship, the police would become involved; and the police frowned upon fools who disrupted the overall superhero-supervillain system. That disapproval transferred into somewhat excessive use of force to detain perceived criminals. The Borg would not stand a chance, and would likely never see the inside of The Vault. A direct entry was the only way to access The Vault, city builders well aware of transporters as well as the technologies necessary to prevent unauthorized comings and going.
Severely limited in options, agreement was given to the plan.
41 of 83 reached the door first. She raised one arm in preparation to smash glass.
"Whoa! Stop there!" called Dr. Ban'Anna as he rushed to the front of the group. 41 of 83 paused, mid-swing. "Keys," the banana said, holding up a ring of jangling metal objects, "are much easier. Besides, if you break anything going in, I have to pay for repairs." A key was fit into the lock. The door quietly swung open.
Dr. Ban'Anna slipped into The Vault building main room, waiting for the drones to all enter before firmly pulling the door closed. Educational displays ringed the high-ceilinged room, walls interspersed with snatches of history or photographs of important Evils and Heroes. Two large sheets of bronze decorated the far wall, one etched with the names of prominent contributors to The Vault Interpretive Center, and the other with the names and dates of service of Stone Council heads. An empty visitor information desk stood sentinel near the plaques, next to a Plexiglas donation box, small knickknacks which comprised the interpretive center store, and a rack of bus schedules. Five doors exited the room - one to the street, two to bathrooms, one to a miniature theater for documentary films, and a final one, particularly plain, labeled "The Vault."
The banana looked around the dark room, a smile of pleasant reminiscence on his face. After examining the Wall of Evil for several long minutes, he strolled to the donation box, depositing several bills. "This brings back memories. Admittedly, the school trips were boring, but it isn't everyone who has a relative on display in The Vault." He motioned at a photograph of a rather plump papaya. "Great-grandpa Pa'payan. I was the envy of my classmates. My ultimate goal is to join old Grangranpapa up there one day." He paused. "Well, one of my goals. I would also like Stone domination and to create a thick ketchup that nonetheless is easy to pour. Unfortunately, I don't think the lattermost is possible."
The Borg momentarily went still as the sub-collective diverted mental resources to search records for such a ketchup. Captain managed to halt the tangent moments later, but not before the records of 8,776 races had been examined. The prognosis? Dr. Ban'Anna's quest for perfect ketchup was an impossible flight of fancy, unattainable. The physics of the cosmos did not allow it.
"This way," said Dr. Ban'Anna, leading the way to The Vault marked door. He opened it dramatically, revealing a short hallway. His smirk died as he examined deadpan drone faces. "No sense of humor," he muttered.
"Humor is irrelevant," replied Second.
"The remark was rhetorical. No matter. The door at the end of the hallway leads to The Vault anteroom. There should be some security guards there, the Seniors, I believe. You just need to overcome them. During your fight I'll cackle and proclaim a couple of cliches, after which we'll actually open The Vault and retrieve my Mind Ray and your Lock Artifact. Ready?"
"We are prepared."
"Your show, then," said Dr. Ban'Anna, stepping aside to provide the drones room to advance.
The Borg burst into the room. While "burst" was a strong word, they did enter, weapons drones to the forefront to take the brunt of resistance, and the two of assimilation hierarchy directly behind. Second and Doctor took the rear not because of any command privilege, but simply because their armor was neither as dense nor as thick in comparison to the other five; and Doctor was especially vulnerable, as much as any Borg is vulnerable, due to his finely tuned medical diagnoses instruments and implants.
Three young men sat at the table in the center of the room, high ceilings and distant skylights creating an atmosphere designed to dwarf occupants. The imposing metal door which dominated the far wall only served to increase impressions of insignificance for those so inclined. One fellow, dressed in gray with a forlorn yellow sock sticking to his back, looked up and hissed, "Shhhhhh. Can't you see we are studying? And we just managed to get Jeb to go to sleep."
"Whatz goin' on?" asked a sleepy voice. "Terry?" A young boy sat up from the cot he had been laying in. He began to knuckle his eyes as he yawned. Finished, he peered around, blinking.
The largest, most heavily muscled Hunam of the three at the table stood, placing hands on his hips. "Geez, guys. Couldn't you have waited an extra night? The Zero Heroes will be back on duty then, and I won't be baby-sitting my little brother." Terry frowned.
Dr. Ban'Anna slipped into the room, carefully making sure he was screened by the Borg. "Surrender, Seniors, or feel my wrath!" he shouted dramatically before breaking into an Evil chuckle. As an aside, he whispered to Second, "Do you know how many years it took me to learn proper cackling techniques? Three. There's a knack to do it without coughing."
The young man with sock stood. "Evil Dr. Banana! How. Dare you. Attack. The Vault!"
"Pronounce it right, Johnny," sighed the banana. "It is Dr. Ban'Anna. And you should work on your delivery. Smooth is the key. Let the words flow naturally. Okay, my turn...Static Electricity Boy, you and your comrades should surrender now while you still have the chance!"
"Terry?" called Jeb again, slowly waking up.
Terry shook his head, "Not now, Jeb. Your brother is busy."
Second listened to the exchanges, quickly becoming bored. A tapping against his leg prompted him to look down. A knee-high white chicken wearing an improbable cape was industriously pecking at his shin. It stopped, cocking its head sideways to regard the Borg in a myopic chicken manner. Apparently satisfied, it turned around to present tail, relieving itself on Second's foot.
{Did you see that?} asked Doctor excitedly. {Isn't it just cute with that little cape?}
{Yes. Just cute.} Second stared at the white mess on his foot. The chicken sauntered away. {Okay, enough is enough. We will rid ourselves of these problems and retrieve the Lock Artifact.}
The drones moved forward with conviction. Dr. Ban'Anna sputtered to a stop in the middle of the proscribed Evil tirade: he had not even reached the point where he described his plot to conquer Stone! "Wait! A couple more minutes! I'm almost done, really!" he pleaded.
"We will not comply," stated Second. He scanned the floor, looking for the chicken. Soon it would be introduced to the concept of fried drumsticks.
SEB yelled at the third student, a young man who continued to sit at the table, a surprised expression on his face, "Quick, Gary, go to sleep!"
Gary blinked, "How the hell am I supposed to go to sleep? And, more importantly, why? I'm a normal Hunam, not a superhero!"
With a desperate look at Terry, SEB gestured at a small bottle of pills on the table. He then moved to place himself between Borg and The Vault entrance. His lean frame was not an impressive deterrent. "Stop!" he called, voice cracking. He coughed several times, then continued in a normal tone, "Stop! You are Evil, and I must cling to Evil until it stops being Evil. I am Static Electricity Boy! This would be much easier on both of us, er, all of us, if you just stopped being Evil." The speech was very stilted, as if practiced many times in front of a mirror, but never delivered in public.
This child, this adolescent, presumed to be a threat to the Borg? A threat to a collective consciousness which had assimilated trillions of beings and absorbed thousands of worlds? A threat to perfection? It was all the command and control hierarchy could do to keep laughter from breaking out. Facial nerves deactivated, 41 of 83, the nearest unit to SEB, managed to reply, "Evil is irrelevant. Move aside. Comply."
SEB gulped, but gamely held his ground.
"Terry?"
"Give me a minute, Jeb. Please? Go back to sleep or play one of your video games or something. I'm slightly busy." Terry had shoved several pills from the container into Gary's mouth, forcing him to swallow. Gary's expression was dazed and he was having trouble focusing his eyes. His head started to weave bonelessly as the quick-acting sedative took effect.
"But I gotta go potty. And I'm hungry and thirsty."
"Can you hold it? Is it an emergency?"
"I can hold it, but I'm still hungry and thirsty."
"Then get something from the refrigerator."
"Anything?"
"Sure, Jeb, whatever. Your brother is just a tiny bit busy right now."
"Gee, thanks!" The young Hunam levered himself out of the cot and padded to the nearby mini-fridge, ignoring the advancing Borg. He opened the fridge's door and pulled out a colorful can. Despite the supposed need for a bathroom, it was inevitable that a kid of Jeb's apparent age would gravitate towards a drink, likely one which was carbonated and contained healthy ingredients such as caffeine and sugar.
Gary closed his eyes, head lolling. "I'm juz normal," he slurred, succumbing to the medicine. Several seconds later a distinctive snore erupted from his slack mouth, proceeding a startling transformation. Still asleep, Gary became Narcoleptic Boy. He reached under the table, dragging forth a sheet which was tied around his neck, becoming a cape. One beauty mask later, and a sleepwalking hero stalked into the fray.
41 of 83 hefted SEB up by the lapels. SEB appeared to be a "superhero" who lacked the common super strength, although the drone could feel an odd tickling, crackling on her skin, as if she had just shuffled across a wool rug. The Borg may not be able to assimilate anyone, but they were far from helpless.
The leader of the Seniors weakly kicked. However, when he saw oncoming Narcoleptic Boy, his eyes reflected relief. "Go, get 'm," SEB choked.
Narcoleptic Boy rumbled forward, Terry trailing. While Terry continued to hang back, suspiciously peering at Jeb to determine exactly what the other was drinking, the beefy Narcoleptic Boy tackled 106 of 300 with a full body slam. Bedsheet streaming behind, drone and Hunam went down in a pile. 78 of 212 and 75 of 203 turned to assist. Very quickly, very efficiently, and very anti-climatically, Narcoleptic Boy was contained, super strength no match for servo assisted muscles.
Dr. Ban'Anna crowed, "You are all doomed! I will prevail!"
"Um, just a moment of your time, Evil Dr. Ban'Anna, sir, and hired thugs, but I have a couple of things to say."
"Such as?" prompted Dr. Ban'Anna with a wave of his hand. "We don't have all night, you know."
Terry nervously gulped. Although his appearance argued for a tough man approach, he utterly disliked physical arguments. "This is as Captain Random, you understand."
"We understand," replied Dr. Ban'Anna kindly. He remembered what it was like when he was a young peel, just deciding he wanted to pursue Evil. "Spit it out, son. If you don't practice, you'll never learn how to be a good Good."
Captain Random cleared his throat noisily. "Did you know the average Hunam produces three liters of snot in a 27 hour period?"
Second was stunned. {Really?} echoed in the dataspaces as an interested party initiated a search on snot, cross-indexing it with phlegm production for other humanoid species. All seven drones focused on Captain Random, although those who gripped Senior members did not relax their hold.
"The average ground speed of a Tunian slingslug is 1.3 centimeters per hour."
Automatically the sub-collective plunged into a new direction, this time focusing on speeds of uncommonly slow animals. A secondary tangent researched the various reasons why such slow creatures had been able to survive in a world of fast predators.
"One skein of fine-quality yamba silk requires the dedicated effort of five male Gretchians over the course of three days and nights."
"The sole body of water exposed to atmosphere on Sand is fed by an ancient aquifer; and its average temperature is 60.2 C."
"One hundred thirty-five years ago, the Ultra Grand Prize Winner in the Song Category of the AD Gratoni Awards was the highly controversial single 'Twine Thy Tentacles Around My Glibz.'"
The Borg were paralyzed by the useless information onslaught. Second even ignored the chicken as it came out of hiding to decorate his unmarked foot. SEB and Narcoleptic Boy squirmed away unresponsive hands, leaving behind drones which stared at nothing, postures statue stiff. Dr. Ban'Anna was livid.
"Wake up, you morons! Wake up! They are only useless factoids!" screamed the banana, to no avail.
"Sugar!" happily spouted from the half-sized Hunam next to the mini-fridge. The can of soda was drained to its last syrupy drop.
Captain Random faltered in his recital of the twenty smelliest places in the AD systems. His eyes flicked towards his brother. However, his gush of words continued before the Borg could react to the lapse.
"Sugar! Sugar! Sugarsugarsugarsugarsugar!" verbally bounced Jeb. His body began to shake with pent up energy. "Sugarsugarsugar!"
Captain Random abruptly stopped, throwing off the persona of young superhero for aghast older brother. "Jeb! No! You know better! Mom's gonna kill me!"
Jeb swayed for a moment, then began to bounce off the walls, literally.
"Sh**!" exclaimed Terry. He shot a sharp glance at Dr. Ban'Anna and slowly recovering drones, then apologized profusely. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. Could I take a rain check on this? I've gotta catch my brother before he causes damage to something. Johnny, Gary, help me."
Johnny sat on the ground rubbing his neck, while Gary removed bedsheet and mask in confusion.
"I wish you guys would stop dressing me up like this when I fall asleep. It isn't funny after the hundredth time," complained Gary.
Terry groaned as Jeb bounced over the heads of drones and banana, heading into the interpretive center. "Don't sit there on your duffs, help me catch him before he gets outside! Mom is going to have a hissy fit if this ends up in the paper like last time." He squeezed down the hallway, chasing his brother. Johnny and Gary stood up and followed.
Passing near Dr. Ban'Anna, Johnny paused. "Maybe next time? Or perhaps I could visit you? I really could use a good mentor who can tell me how I should respond appropriately to Evils. I need to work on my leadering and speech skills."
Dr. Ban'Anna beamed, fishing a business card out of a lab coat pocket and handing it to the student. "I'd be glad to mentor you, as long as you understand I will, of course, try to corrupt you to Evil."
Johnny shrugged. "Of course. But I really need to go. Terry's mom is an absolute terror when it comes to Jeb."
The banana gave one of his full body nods. "On with you, then. My schedule is fairly free next week. Give me a call."
Shortly the room was empty except for recovering drones and Evil Supervillain. Dr. Ban'Anna strode to the huge Vault door, examining the complicated combination lock. From the hallway leading to the interpretive center came the sound of glass breaking, followed by imaginative curses.
The Vault door was oversized, built on the same outlandishly giant, almost cartoonish, scale which was characteristic of all Stone buildings. The metal was gray, reflecting ambient light, but not images. One presumed an unseen mechanism opened the slab, else a perfect system of counterbalances, otherwise sheer mass alone would prohibit /twenty/ Borg from levering the thing open once unlocked. And the lock itself was daunting: six keypads located under separate liquid crystal displays, displays likely to require each a multiple digit numeral as part of the overall sequence. The possible permutations were very, very large.
The sub-collective winced in frustration as the nature of the lock was observed. If they were forced to enter every possible sequence, it might be years or even decades before the correct combination was found. Another, more direct, method was required.
As if reading the Borg mind - more likely observing the twitches as the weapons drones responded to building consensus to burn open the door with disrupters - Dr. Ban'Anna began waggling his hands in negation. "No force is necessary. The combination is common knowledge." With that hasty explanation, the Evil Villain turned and swiftly touched "1," followed by "2," then "3," "4," "5," and "6."
That was it?
The immense door swung quietly open as the final number was entered, revealing a dark cavern full of mysterious shapes. Overhead lights flickered on one after another, showing The Vault to be an accurate, if unimaginative, name. The room would rival many of those on Cube #347, excluding Bulk Cargo Holds, and seemed to be larger on the inside than the building outside suggested. The shapes became endless scaffolding holding shelves piled high with unknown gizmos and gadgets. Several extremely large machines battled for space on the floor, some covered by tarps and other bare silhouettes like emaciated spiders with too few or too many legs.
Dr. Ban'Anna sucked in a deep breath of the slightly oily air, held it for several seconds, then exhaled. A wide smile crossed his face. Turning, he grabbed a small clipboard hanging on the wall next to The Vault door. Flipping over the top several pages, he began to silently read.
Second and the other six drones, Second and the sub-collective, the sub-collective stared. Each of the seven Borg on Stone peered into the depths of The Vault. How the hell were they to find the Lock Artifact? This task made The Vault combination lock look like a simple mental exercise.
"Dr. Ban'Anna, Mind Ray #6," muttered the banana, reading outloud as he found the entry he sought, "lot #343101. Row H, slot 16. Yup, about where I thought it might be. One of my better Mind Rays, and I definitely want it back. Too bad my Remote Doom Control isn't ready for release, but I can't have everything." He flipped over several additional papers. "Let's see. Lock Artifact, Lock Artifact. Here we go. Lock Artifact, Lost and Found, lot #5. Old sucker. Row ZZ, slot 3. Way in the back, too. Come on, fellows, we'll pick up my Mind Ray on our way to your Lock Artifact." The banana sauntered confidently into the confounding rows of shelving after replacing the clipboard to its hook.
If the maze were obviously marked, Second failed to see it. As far as he, the sub-collective, was concerned, Dr. Ban'Anna was transversing random corridors, albeit with certainty belying any indication that they were actually lost. It would be quite possible to lose people in The Vault. At one point Doctor thought he saw something which looked like a desiccated body half hidden under a jumble of electronic equipment.
Dr. Ban'Anna stopped in front of what seemed to be a three-way mating between telescope, rifle disrupter, and erector set. The contraption was a finger or two under two meters in height, a jointed tripod arrangement with a metal tube slung from apex supports. The hanging cylinder was steadied by thin metal struts, one from each lower tripod leg. A forlorn plug lay on the ground like a dead snake, indicating power source for the device was not integrated into the design.
"Ah, Mind Ray project #6," sighed Dr. Ban'Anna. " I really like this one. Great potential. Not only is the concept sound, but the construction appealing to the eye."
Borg interest was piqued, a natural reaction to any piece of technology which might be applied towards the quest of perfection. "What is its purpose?" asked Second as the banana directed three drones, one per tripod leg, to hoist the device.
"It is very devious," responded Dr. Ban'Anna, pausing for dramatic effect. "I wish to rid Stone of cabana boys and all mixed drink products which utilize bananas as ingredients. This Mind Ray is the key, after a little tinkering, that is. Unfortunately it was confiscated last time I tried using it. For some reason no one was amused when pet shoshos began to rearrange their food and water bowls. I admit it might have been a little on the obsessive-compulsive side. I don't think I quite have the proper brainwave pattern match yet, nor the hypnodigitizer adjusted correctly."
The Borg abruptly lost interest: the machine was as odd and useless as Stone government, Stone society, Stone people.
The drones awkwardly lifted the Mind Ray, following Dr. Ban'Anna as he led the group deeper into The Vault bowels. Shelf and rack delineated corridors became increasingly narrow as row ZZ was neared; and overhead, neglected lighting resulted in patches of darkness which only served to emphasis shadows at the bottom of the do-dad lined ways. The party slowed as maneuvering the Mind Ray required increasing attention. Dr. Ban'Anna assured everyone that the trek was nearing its end. Dust on shelves and contraptions hinted this area of The Vault was rarely visited.
Dr. Ban'Anna halted, peering up at the ceiling as if counting distant tiles. The three drones hauling Mind Ray stopped just in time to prevent trampling the banana into mush. Second pushed himself forward, brushing against an ancient machine. It wobbled alarmingly for several seconds, but did not fall off its perch. Dr. Ban'Anna, apparently unsatisfied, took three more paces, then paused again.
"Here we go. Row ZZ, slot 3. This must be it. Not very impressive, if I do say so myself. Could use a little decoration. I can see why its former owner never stepped forward to identify and claim it." The banana picked up a small box from the shelf, blew off a cloud of dust, then presented it to Second. "Satisfied?"
Second took the object. {This is it?} echoed in the dataspaces. No blinking lights, nothing. It appeared to be a simple heavy shoebox-sized affair with a thin slot, credit card sized, at one end. Leads curled from the other end, obviously meant to attach to something not present at the moment. If Dr. Ban'Anna had not said the object to be the coveted Artifact, it would have been passed by as a piece of junk.
"This is it?" verbalized Second.
Dr. Ban'Anna shrugged. "That's what the inventory list said. We need to get out of here. Officials will be arriving shortly, and they prefer Evils and their accomplices to be out of the vicinity when the 'crime is rising, the government needs more money' speech is given." Borg trailing (and internally cursing the unwieldy nature of the Mind Ray), the banana turned the corner and led them to more brightly lit regions.
Evil Dr. Ban'Anna approached a large metal door, the variety placed at the back of grocery stores and other businesses requiring transport of bulky objects too large for normal entrances. He absently pushed a large red button, triggering the door to slowly ratchet open. Outside was a standard delivery entrance, concrete pad raised above street level to facilitate loading and unloading of trucks. A pile of discarded pallets was stacked haphazardly to the right side of the delivery door. Beyond waited the Bananamobile, as well as a pickup truck painted the same unforgettable yellow hue.
No alarms. No security.
"Why...why did we not enter here?" stuttered Second, regaining momentary loss of vocal motor functioning, the Borg equivalent of a gaping jaw.
In response, Dr. Ban'Anna pointed to a sign. 78 of 212 peered at it, reading "Delivery or Transport Only - Use Front For All Business Transactions. Minimum $500 Fine. No Loitering and No Trespassing. City Ordinance Code 0ZL5.3A."
The banana replied, "We were performing a transaction. Since we have goods now, we may use this door for an exit. Once you put the Mind Ray in the truck, I'll give you a lift if you need it. Nice working with you fellows. Sure I can't interest you in a permanent job?"
*****
The Seniors were quizzing each other on their respective finals when the door leading to the interpretive center banged open. With an annoyed mutter from Johnny which distinctly sounded like "Twice in one night?", the three looked up from their chaotic pile of paper, books and handheld computers.
Dramatic music bugled as a red and black costumed man leapt into the room. "I am Miraculous Man, and we are the Council of Justice!" Fanfare. "We come to revenge ourselves against the forces of Evil Dr. Ban'Anna!" Louder fanfare, with cymbal clash. Terry apprehensively glanced towards the cot in the corner. "The Council of Justice includes - Blade! The Bailiff! Brick! Catfighter! The Paranoid! And The Mutant Gerbil!" One by one, the named members theatrically entered the room, accompanied by triumphant trumpets.
The final person, the Mutant Gerbil, was more restrained in his appearance due to the boombox he was carrying. His small ears were plastered against his skull as the audio tape blasted another brass flare. He clicked the stop button at Miraculous Man's cue.
"I said," shouted Johnny, pausing as he realized the music was gone. He continued in a more moderate tone. "I said, if you are looking for Dr. Ban'Anna, he came and went about two hours ago. You missed the whole thing. Now, could you go away and let us study?"
"Terry?" called a child's voice, blurred with sleep.
Terry grumbled, "I just got Jeb calmed down and to bed. Was this entrance /really/ necessary? Dr. Ban'Anna was much more restrained."
Miraculous Man managed to look embarrassed. "Well, er..."
Rumbled The Bailiff, "I had to take comp time for this. I'm outta here. If I hurry, I can finish my shift." He turned and shouldered his way out of The Vault anteroom. The other Council of Justice members seemed similarly peeved, except for Brick, who just looked like he had been picked up off a barroom floor, given a very cold shower, and stuffed into the back seat of a mini-van which did not fit his overlarge physique.
"Maybe if /certain people/ hadn't been doing their hair, we could have arrived faster," muttered Blade.
Catfighter narrowed her eyes. "And maybe if /certain people/ weren't over attached to their weapons," she returned.
"That does it," exclaimed Blade. "You are toast." She moved aggressively toward the other woman.
"Terry?"
"Just a moment, Jeb," responded Terry. The other two Seniors continued to present a unified glare of annoyance to Miraculous Man.
"Perhaps there was been a slight misunderstanding," began Miraculous Man. "Two hours, really?" Beside him, the Mutant Gerbil and a hungover Brick were keeping Catfighter and Blade apart, but just barely. A chicken stalked a black and red booted foot, ignored by everyone except the gerbil, who was careful not to give away the feathered Hero.
Another typical night on Stone...
*****
Mechanical eyes impassively watched the cubeship retreat. Wide irises observed without judgment as obstructed stars became visible once more, geometrical shadow growing smaller with distance. Once an unaimed green beam lashed out with the plasma fury of temper tantrum, shedding a momentary pulse of light upon one sharp edge, but otherwise causing no disruption to the fifty-three satellites in the orbital constellation.
One by one, satellites uncloaked as impatient masters returned to important concerns - spying on the opposition, however it may be defined. Gyroscopes whirled and thrusters fired, realigning unblinking cameras with the Stone surface, forsaking the black speck which was the now departed Borg ship. One satellite released a dozen small missiles, little more than crowbars with motors and a simple guidance system. The target responded with a scattering of chaff, causing the missiles to go harmlessly astray. The attack had been half-hearted, not serious. The entities who could afford to maintain a cloakable spy satellite in Stone orbit had much more destructive weapons in their arsenals than rocket-driven crowbars.
Keeping Evil (and Good) at bay was a full-time job, and very expensive. Borg, and the rest of the AD systems for that matter, were insignificant. Let them squabble over Artifacts and AD domination. Stone would endure. In the end, only Good, Evil, and the never-ending quest for perfect ketchup were important.
Thanks to the following people for heading my pleading at the start of Season 4 -
Chad and Ben:
Static Electricity Boy
Narcoleptic Boy
Captain Random
Ritalin Boy
Cloe the Wonder Chicken
Evil Dr. Ban'Anna
Ray Blanchard:
(Council of Justice / Zero Heroes)
Miraculous Man
The Brick
Catfighter
The Bailiff
The Paranoid
The Blade
The Mutant Gerbil
No name given, but you know who you are:
Grandpa Man
I'm sorry I couldn't use all the heroes which were e-mailed me, but I thank everyone who contributed. To those who's heroes (and villain) did make it into this story, I hope I didn't distort them too much from what you described!
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