Meta Zero One (10 page)

  Margaret wondered if the killers last moments had been slightly more pleasurable than he really deserved, before Gwen's thighs crushed him to a pulp anyway.

  So Monday saw her back in her office at 8.30 am, sipping strong black coffee and nibbling an almond croissant.

  She felt good, and for the first time in a week she felt in control of her life. The day ahead was filled with the normal, regular clients, people whose hang ups tended to be of human, not super human proportions.

She liked arriving at work before her secretary, who she had chosen more for her looks than her brain. Having an attractive female receptionist scored major points with some of her shallower corporate clients, and Sophie was very good at flirting, lousy at typing, or filing, but fantastic at flirting.

Getting in a little bit early also gave her the opportunity to organise her thoughts, to scan through the client list and review her previous notes.

She liked to make sure that she understood her clients needs and was able to show clear progress, rather than as some of her colleagues  did just going over the same ground week in and week out.

Because she put each client so far out of her mind in between sessions this meant that she had to read her notes carefully before each appointment.

Her first appointment was a case in point. Frank said that he was a serial philanderer, he was, he said, simply unable to keep it in his pants. An accountant, he worked for a major city firm, and he had, he said, worked his way around most of his female staff, one at a time.

Sometimes more than one at a time.

This would be his third appointment, and she wanted to fill in some gaps in his background. So far he had been vague about his family life, and even more vague about where he worked.

This was not that unusual, in reality many clients lied furiously for the first few visits.

Margaret had never really understood why, since everything they talked about was confidential anyway. But it was their money after all, it was up to them how much of it they wasted.

Still it was usually by the third or fourth appointment that she was starting to get under their skin, starting to get a feel for the real them.

  She needed to get beyond the lies with Frank if she wanted to make any progress.

  Her coffee was going cold, so she drank it down, feeling the caffeine hit clearing any residual tiredness.

 Finishing the croissant she leaned back in her chair and reviewed her notes.

  Relaxing she put her feet up on the desk, grabbing five minutes of undisturbed peace.

  The door to her office opened and Frank walked in.

  Margaret sat up and smiled, covering her embarrassment as best she could.

  "Frank," she said, standing, smoothing her skirt down, "you're early, didn't Sophie offer you a coffee?"

  More importantly how had she let him just barge in to her office? Surely she knew better than that.

  "Sophie's not in yet," he replied, "and the door was unlocked, so I let myself in sorry."

  Margaret knew that this was a lie. Sophie may not have been in, but the outer door was keypad controlled, you had to buzzed in, or know the 5 digit code, something she was sure Frank didn't.

  "What's going on Frank?" she asked, maintain your professionalism, she thought, pulling her glasses from her desk and putting them on. She did not feel threatened, not by Frank, he was four foot 6, and so skinny that he would blow away in a strong breeze.

  When she had first met him, she'd found it difficult to believe that he had ever even had sex, never mind the conquests he had described to her. He either had something special hidden in his bag of tricks or was a fantasist, she was not sure which yet.

  No physically he was no threat to her, but still  she kept the desk between them and opened the top draw where she kept an illegal 6 inch flick knife.

  Frank made no move to approach her, instead he walked over to the sofa sat down and put his tatty rucksack on his knee. She could smell the faint odour of sweat coming of him, he was nervous.

"I'm sorry Margaret, but I just need to do something before we start the session," he smiled,  "don't be alarmed, I'm not going to kill myself." Reaching into his bag he took out a small silvery metallic ball, with a large red button on the top.

Placing it carefully on the table, then glancing left and right he pressed the button.

Nothing appeared to happen, other than a small sizzling noise and Margaret's ears popped.

"I've just erected a level 10 force field around this room," he said, "nothing short of The Guardian himself could break through it, and we both know he won't be anywhere around here for a while."

  Shit thought Margaret, suddenly understanding, Frank was some sort of super powered nut job as well.

  "Now," he said, "one more precaution." He lifted a flat metal disc which he gently tossed into the air, where if floated just above his head. It hovered for a few seconds, then a green light shot out from its horizontal axis and it started to spin. It rotated so fast that within seconds the entire room was bathed in an unearthly green glow.

Frank stood up and walked around the room, looking into every corner, moving furniture so that the light had eventually struck every inch of the room.

He then walked back to his seat, looked satisfied, grabbed the disc from the air and put it back in his bag.

"Ok," he said, "we are alone, as far as I can tell."

"Great," Margaret said, her hand still hovering over the knife in her desk draw.

"Don't worry Margaret, it's fine," Frank smiled, and as he did his face and body changed. He filled out, grew in size and muscle density. Within seconds he had changed completely from small skinny Frank to tall muscular Dave, the man she had spent Friday night with so enjoyably.

He then changed again, not as much, just a subtle shifting of his features, he could have been Dave's brother and certainly at first glance would have been mistaken for him.

His clothes, which had fitted Frank now, morphed with him, and  became a pair of expensive jeans and a tight black t shirt.

  "Oh," Margaret said, "this sort of thing is getting to be a bit of a habit."

"Sorry for the deception Margaret, but you will understand, I hope. My name is not Frank. Or Dave, no my name is Dr Richard Yang, and I believe that my wife might be insane."

"Your wife, insane?" Margaret muttered.

"Yes you can see the problem, can't you. Since the accident that gave us our powers she has not been able to become fully visible at all, not ever, and I think it is turning her mad. Oh and she is also convinced I am having an affair."

"You are," Margaret muttered,

"Yes, and that just makes it so much worse."

Chapter 6 - Elroy stops a fight.

Elroy sipped his cranberry juice, enjoying the dry, slightly metallic taste it left in his mouth.

He had read in Men's Health that it was good for the digestive system, that it kept his tubes clean and so over the last four years it had become his drink of choice when he was working, when anything stronger would be inappropriate.

  So since he was due at the coroners at 8.30 he stuck to the juice and refused the temptation of a nice cold beer.

  To turn up to an autopsy smelling of drink seemed somehow disrespectful to the dead. Over the last few years Elroy had learned the very real dangers of being disrespectful to the dead.

  They could, and frequently did, come back to haunt you.

  Right now he was on the job anyway, watching Margaret Mason, trying to work out if his department could trust her to keep the secret that The Guardian was dead.

Exactly what, he thought, he could get out of sitting watching her in a bar, he was not sure.

But, since a "do not touch" order had come down from on high it was the best he could do.

Margaret Mason didn't know it, but she was untouchable by any law enforcement officer in the USA. To that end she was to be treated as if she was a major super power, with all the leeway that unofficial position entailed.

She didn't know it, but if she was to pull out a machine gun and murder all the people in the room the worst she would get was a severe telling off.

Elroy didn't know why, but he didn't like it, a "do not touch" order had to originate from the President herself. He suspected that at least one other powered hero had used her services recently and had put pressure on the President to make her untouchable.

  They obviously did not want any of their secrets being accidentally made public by some overzealous public prosecutor.

  So Elroy watched, drinking his "good for his urine" cranberry juice.

  He watched as she talked to Stanley, as she downed more beer than he knew he could handle in a single sitting.

  He watched as she allowed herself to get picked up by one of the more adventurous of the bars occupants, who he noted had only come into the bar minutes before and had zeroed in on Margaret immediately.

It all  looked a little too deliberate to Elroy, as if had been looking for her specifically, rather than just picking her out as a likely target.

He watched as they, arm in arm left the bar and quickly paying his tab he followed them to the door of the hotel, with a smile on his face.

She definitely needed watching, of that he was certain, and if not for the "do not touch" order, he would have been recommending her immediate termination.

Her apparent promiscuity put her as too much of a risk. She was just too much of a target for foreign intelligence, who, it seemed to him, picked up on "do not touch" orders almost before he did.

He made a mental note of the time and name of the hotel, more out of habit than anything else. He also fixed the man's face in his mind as well.

There was something familiar about it, but he just could not put his finger on it.

Still for now there was nothing else he could do, and he had an appointment a few blocks across town.

Elroy preferred, whenever he could, to walk rather than get a cab. He spent so much time dealing with the weird and the less than wonderful, that the normality, at least the relative normality of the New York streets was a refreshing change.

He used walking as time to think, time to get his priorities straight.

Not that the air, thick with traffic fumes, the faint scent of sweat, and cooked and raw food could in any way be considered refreshing. Still he loved the feeling of life, the unadulterated energy of the place.

His route took him past the bar he had been in earlier where he faced a choice of direction. Sticking to the main streets would take him longer but would be safer, cutting across the back streets would be quicker, but would take him across a corner of Lowtown, and so would be considerably less safe.

Still, Elroy felt more than able to handle himself, in fact he pitied anyone who tried to get in his way.

In truth he would have almost welcomed it.

So with a confident swagger he turned left, cutting out half of his journey, and cutting through the south west corner of Lowtown.

Every social change brings about related changes geographically to the makeup of a city, indeed  to the makeup of a country as a whole. The sudden and unexpected rise of the Meta powered heroes was no different.

Just as the influx of Italian immigrants gave rise to Italian quarter, the Chinese to China Town, powered heroes had their own districts, their own places where they gathered in numbers.

In heroes cases they had gravitated to two main areas.

The ultra-powerful who mainly kept their identities secret tended to meet in the more wealthy parts of town. The Family owned the Sarrs Tower, their own purpose built headquarters. The League of Heroes had a large well defended  private mansion on the outskirts of the city, but for the lower powered, things were very different.

For every SpeedFreak, able to run close to the speed of light, or Electro Boy, able to generate enough electricity to power New York there was a man who could run at just over 35 miles an hour, a girl with 6 breasts or boy born with cloven hooves.

For every ultra powered hero there were half a dozen whose powers were either inconsequential, useless or just plain weird. While being able to fire laser blasts from your eyes might make you look cool and be easy to aim, firing them from your arsehole was  less inspiring and so far less likely to get you sponsored by Pepsi.

Being able to fly was useful, but being able to fly two inches above the ground was not.

  And if you just happened to be Multiple Buttock Boy, well where did you fit in.

Lowtown, that was where.

Lowtown, where all the low powered freaks, mutants and semi heroes precipitated like the scum on the top of a bath.

Lowtown, both and eyesore and a tourist attraction. Lowtown, where life was cheap, and if you were a normal, every day human being, it was frequently valueless.

The NYPD had long ago stopped patrolling it, leaving it to the residents to enforce their own rather brutal form of justice.