The Good Fight 2: Villains Page 14

  “Evening, Miss Merullo.” greeted the Congressman amiably. He was well-acquainted with Kimberly Merullo, a lobbyist for the Interstate Psionic Bounty Agency. They had worked together to make sure one of the IPBA’s incarceration facilities was built in his district. The endeavor brought four hundred jobs to the district and a hundred thousand dollars to his campaign war chest.

  Merullo nodded in return. “Evening Congressman.” She smiled that broad, overly familiar smile used car salesmen had, but her eyes softened in a genuine manner when she caught site of the dog. “What a beautiful dog! I didn’t see him around here last time I came by.”

  Sinclair chuckled, “Ol’ Butch here? Well this fella’s new. Bob Binchy—you know Bob; works for the Designer Pets Association International? Well he was here three or four months ago to discuss the unnecessary regulations being put on engineering docile clones of exotic animals. Now you know me and where I stand: if a company fails to ensure that their products are docile and they kill a few people, the free market will eventually push that company out of business on its own without government interference.”

  “Oh, of course.” Merullo nodded along. Even if she disagreed, or was actually listening at all, there was no point in disagreeing with him when she had a sales pitch to make.

  “But anyway, Bob was telling me all about how customers want variety in their pets and how GenePals was developing a docile Bengal tiger when he noticed we had all this wide open space and no dog. Long story short, he pulled some strings and a week later, the good folks at PetsoftheFuture.animal delivered Butch here free of charge.”

  Merullo’s eyebrows went up as her urge to pet the animal went down. “So he’s engineered?”

  “The company that made him call them the Einstein Mutt; smart as all hell. Most dogs will bring you your slippers when you come home, but if you come home with a load of groceries, Butch here will open the garage door for you, then start opening cabinets for you to put things away. He’ll even start the coffeemaker in the morning if you forget to set it.”

  “Smart dog.” Merullo said, looking Butch over. He had a chocolate brown coat, which she’d never seen on a a German Shepherd, and was watching her just as intently as she watched him.

  “The smartest.” said Sinclair. “I never got a dog before ‘cause they were too stupid. Butch single-handedly turned me into a dog person.”

  He gave the dog an affectionate scratch on the head. “But I suspect you’re not here to talk dogs, Miss Merullo. How about we go sit on the porch and I’ll hear you out.”

  “That sounds perfect, Congressman.”

  The porch could only be differentiated from a room because three of the four walls were just frames with screens in them and glass slats that could be closed against the rare instances of rain. It sported a hardwood floor and fancy throw rugs beneath wicker furniture with red velvet cushions. There was a ‘taming of the west’ motif with numerous cowboy figurines shooting Indian figurines and a huge painting of men shooting buffalo from a train hanging on the wall the porch shared with the house proper.

  Sinclair had his guest seated in a comfortable chair with a high back and used his palmtop to tell the butler to bring them drinks; lemonade for Merullo as she was driving, and whiskey and coke for himself. Once his order was given, he sank into his own seat. Butch obediently lay down at his right hand, still watching Merullo.

  “While we’re waiting, let’s get down to business.”

  Merullo nodded. “Right. Now Congressman, you know the election is coming up in a few weeks, and we have some concerns . . .”

  The congressman gave her a confused look. “We still have the House in a lock (thank God for gerrymandering) and I’m not for election this year . . .”

  “Oh, we know you’re not. But our numbers say that the Constitutional Freedom Party is going to lose the presidential bid and their hold on the Senate.” replied Merullo, her face a mask of disappointment and disgust. “It’s this damn Brazilian gap flipping Florida again, plus the psionic situation.”

  “What about psionics?”

  Merullo waved a hand, dismissive of the entire controversy. “Oh they’re trying to paint the CFP as bigoted because of the party’s support of the Braylocke laws. It started as this ‘movement’ challenging things like France’s draft and PSA’s with prelates and now they’re demanding to be called ‘descendants’ and saying that Braylocke laws are discriminatory.”

  With a small cough, Sinclair shifted in his chair. “Miss Merullo, you should know that my niece is a ‘descendant’. She even goes to that school in Mayfield.”

  “Oh, I’m well aware.” said the lobbyist. “And the IPBA wants you to know that we have no interest in targeting your niece. All the Braylocke laws do is make sure that psionics are punished by the law to an equal extent that humans criminals would be.”

  Sinclair’s eyes narrowed at the distinction between psionics and humans, but Merullo kept talking.

  “The issue is the powers these people have. They’re perfectly fine for a law-abiding, proper young lady like your niece and like most psionics, but let’s face it: if one wants to turn to crime, they’re more dangerous than any gun. I have information here about terrifying events that had already happened, starting with the Greenview Ridge incident itself and continuing on to things like a little girl in Canada who burned her parents to death in their home.

  “That’s the kind of thing the IPBA is meant to protect people from, Congressman. This isn’t some sinister plot. We are providing the means for states to police and incarcerate psionics without the need to hire and train more police or build new jails themselves. And the best part: we’re creating new jobs in the process.”

  Sinclair cupped his chin in one hand, rubbing it thoughtfully. “I’ve already worked with you getting that prison built. I’ve already proven to you and the party that ‘m a team player. So why are you coming to me now? I’m not up for election this year, and there’s no vote on anything involving descendants until after the election.”

  Shaking her head, Merullo leaned forward. “This isn’t about this year’s election, Congressman. The ProgLibs have too much momentum now to break them this term. We’re looking toward 2078’s senatorial election.”

  She clasped her hands in front of her and looked him in the eye. “Senator Knowles is barely hanging on in polls. He’s out of touch, the rugged good looks he cruised in on have turned to flab and even the power of incumbency isn’t going to protect him for long.”

  “Now wait just a minute, Steve Knowles is a great man. He was a mentor of mine when I first took office.” Sinclair protested.

  Merullo shrugged without a shred of sympathy. “And mentors age, Congressman. They eventually need to step aside. In this case, stepping aside means stepping into a vice-presidency within the IPBA if he’s amenable. If not, one of his mistresses will certainly be willing to come forward . . .”

  The hand on Sinclair’s chin traveled up to rake his hairline. “I refuse to believe that Steve ever cheated on his wife . . .” he caught the look in Merullo’s eyes and realized that not having an affair wouldn’t stop a mistress from emerging. “ . . .but may I ask what this has to do with me?”

  “As I’ve said: the Braylocke laws have been taking hits lately with these accusations of profiling and bigotry, and the opposition is going to try to ban them on the national level if they can. We need someone to lead the charge against that in the Senate; someone who can’t be accused of bigotry—perhaps because they have family who are psionics?”

  Serendipitously, Yates, the Sinclair family butler arrived with the drinks. He was an older man; bald up top but with a thick, white mustache. While he served the drinks and asked if there was anything else, Sinclair pondered what lay before him.

  He wasn’t a fool and unlike far more of his colleagues than anyone would like to admit, he read the laws that came up for votes as well as some that were passing through the state legislature. For him, it was actual excitement about the law
that led him into politics to start and only later had he learned of all the perks that came with voting the right way.

  The Braylocke laws mostly replaced police with state-contracted bounty hunters in cases where a descendant was involved. The more sensible ones only opened this door in the case of violent crimes, but most of them allowed for such action for any arrestable offense, from murder to shoplifting. Worse, some of them even dumped descendants into an entirely separate legal system not unlike a military court. It was a class of laws destined for a date with the Supreme Court and being on the wrong side, be that upholding a potentially unjust law, or letting the next Arjun Ravi get away, would obliterate a man’s legacy.

  And then there was the actual offer. It surprised him that the IPBA thought it had enough power to knock Steve Knowles out of office, but it surprised him more that they wanted to put him in Knowles’s place. A Senator had a great deal more direct power and with power came perks and a nice retirement package in a corporate pay-grade.

  What of his niece?

  As much as he loved her, he knew for a fact that Betty as not the ‘law-abiding, proper young woman’ Merullo painted her as even if the girl’s parents thought otherwise. Betty as opinionated, shrill and so spoiled that milk turned to yoghurt on her tongue. Like so many spoiled rich girls before her, it was only the matter of time she landed before a judge with her folks shocked that such a thing could happen.

  If there was a Braylocke law in the state she finally got arrested in, she would be brought in by heavily armed and armored individuals with all the powers of a cop and none of the responsibilities or limits.

  . . .Unless her Senator uncle pulled strings with the IPBA. He doubted he would be able to do that as a congressman who turned down the company’s generous offer.

  “Congressman?” Merullo’s voice jarred him out of his thoughts. He came back to himself, staring down into the dark, effervescent surface of his drink.

  “Hmm?”

  “I was saying that there’s no hurry. We can shop the idea around to a few others—in fact, if the numbers hold, we’ll need to flip three seats in the Senate as it is. Call if—“

  “Wait.” Sinclair held up a finger as he took a gulp of whiskey and soda to calm his nerves. “I didn’t say I was turning you down. I just need more details. For example: is the IPBA willing to set up a Political Action Committee for me?”

  Merullo smiled her car salesman smile and took a sip of her lemonade. “Oh most certainly, Senator. Let’s talk shop . . .”

  Back to Table of Contents

  I Am SKYSTEP

  By R.J. Ross

  R.J. Ross is the author of the Cape High Series, a YA superhero series that focuses on the teenage children of known superheroes and villains in the Cape High universe. The stories center around a newly found high school called Cape High, where the main characters go to school. There they learn to control their powers and decide which side of the “photo-op” game they want to be on, Superheroes or Super Villains. While there are a few true super villains in the series, mainly the series is a fun, light-hearted approach to the genre, one aimed at all ages.

  Follow R.J. on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/capehigh, read her blog and check out her store at http://capehigh.wordpress.com and follow her on twitter @rjrosscapehigh!

  * * *

  It’s the sound of sirens that wake me. I grunt and roll over, looking at the window to see if there’s enough light worth waking up for. Hmmm . . . It looks like it’s about noon. I guess I can wake up at noon. I mean, I’m totally out of things to eat, right?

  I don’t bother to take the sheets off, I just phase through them. Hey, what’s the point when sometime in the middle of the night my leg did it already? I step out of the pile of blankets and sheets that make up my bed on the floor and head for the bathroom. I turn on the water—nothing happens. It looks like they turned off the water. I’m going to have to visit the water company again. That’s always such a pain—they don’t take me seriously until I do something dramatic. Then again, I LOVE being dramatic.

  Something’s off. It feels like I’m not alone.

  I look around, curiously—Someone’s watching me. I know they are. I look around, my eyes narrowing. I can’t see anyone, but—“I know you’re out there!” I say, waving a fist. “I don’t know where you came from, but I know why you’re here! You’ve come to see the REAL super villains, not that imitation of a super villain, Panther! Oh, you don’t like that, huh? Some of you are Panther fans, huh? HA! I am SKYSTEP! I LAUGH AT YOUR ANGER!

  “Well, whatever, if you want to see something dramatic you’re going to have to wait. This is my day off from super villain work.”

  I’m starving. I head to my fridge. (Thankfully they haven’t cut my electricity. I think Voltdrain has something to do with that. He’s such a busybody—no wonder he’s a South Branch hero.) I look inside, at something . . . green. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a vegetable to start with. I poke it, just in case, and give up when it falls over. Nope. I might be crazy, but I’m not THAT crazy. I sigh and close the door, grabbing my norm clothes and shrugging them on. It’s time to go shopping. I hop into the air, phasing through the wall and running through the sky, the world fifteen feet beneath me.

  My socks don’t match—wait, where are my shoes, anyway? Now this probably wouldn’t be a problem if I weren’t already halfway to the grocery store, huh? I stop, just standing on the air high above the street, and look down at my shoeless feet thoughtfully. There’s that sign at the store that says “No shirt, no shoes, no service” right? I think they put it up for me the last time I went to the store in my PJs. But I need stuff to eat—if you don’t eat, you die, right? Or get really, really hungry, at least!

  “Hey—hey you! Lady!” I say, walking down invisible steps and onto the sidewalk. “What size shoes are you wearing?”

  “Um—seven?” she offers.

  “Darn it, I need an eight!” I complain. “Does anyone here wear a size eight?” The entire crowd on the sidewalk look at each other and then at me, shaking their heads.

  “There’s a shoe store right over there, Skystep,” a little girl offers with a huge grin.

  I get in her face, because—”YOU DO NOT GRIN AT A SUPER VILLAIN!” I yell, waving my arms in the air. She starts laughing her head off. I straighten and cross my arms over my chest, tapping my foot as I wait for her to stop. For some reason, that makes her laugh even harder. Soon I hear little snorts of laughter from the crowd, so I turn to glare them into submission.

  “I like your socks,” the little girl says as soon as she calms down, pointing at them.

  Well, then, that’s more acceptable, I think. “Thank you,” I say. “I’m very fond of them, as well.” One has Maximum’s logo the other has a teddy bear. They rock! With my ego appeased, I strut off to the shoe store, certain I made my point—whatever point that was. The bell rings over my head and I look around the shoe store, seeing a college age girl sitting at the front desk. When she sees me she stands, a strange look on her face.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “I’m looking for shoes,” I say, heading down the aisles, “I need them to go shopping.”

  “Okay,” she says, “but don’t you need them to go shopping here, too?”

  “What would be the point of shopping for shoes if you already HAVE them?” I demand. “If I had shoes I wouldn’t have to buy shoes so I could go shopping! Duh.”

  “That’s a good point, I guess?” she offers as I grab a box off of the shelves and pull out a pair of tennis shoes.

  “How much damage can you do with these?” I ask her, holding up the shoes. “Do you think you can break skulls with them?”

  “Probably not,” she says, “but they’d be good for running?”

  “I do a lot of running,” I say thoughtfully. “Do you have any with metal toes? I think it’d be a great compromise!”

  “Not the tennis shoes here, sorry. I mean, they exist, but I’ll have to special
order them. Maybe we could find you some boots that have rubber soles?”

  “Great idea!” I say, “To the boots!”

  “Can I ask—are you Skystep?” she asks. “I mean, you’re out of uniform and all that, but you remind me of her so much.”

  “Why would you think I was Skystep?” I ask.

  “Because you’re walking half a foot off the ground?”

  I look down. Whoops. I drop down to floor level. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say in my best “bland” voice.

  “I’m a huge fan of Skystep,” she says, “I’ve even got her poster at home. She’s just so—”

  “So?” I prompt.

  “Fun to watch,” she says, grinning widely at me. “Here, these should work,” she says, picking up a pair of display boots and showing them to me. “What size?”

  “Eight—can I get them in neon colors like the tennis shoes?”

  * * *

  I decided on the tennis shoes after all—and I stole them! Well, sort of. See, Century once dropped a credit card during one of our epic battles and I stole it from him! So every time I go shopping, I’m robbing the head of the South Branch Hall—it’s AWESOME. I figure he’s just so loaded with cash that he doesn’t even notice I’m using his card, so he hasn’t canceled it yet. I even had her order some steel toed tennis shoes for me! I’m really looking forward to those.

  Now, I think as I head for the grocery store, it’s finally time to go shopping! I’ve got all my clothes on this time—shoes included! So they shouldn’t have any reason to yell at me for coming in, right? I head into the Wal-Mart, holding my head high and even grabbing a shopping cart. I glance down, making sure I’m walking on ground, and head into the store. I nod at the old man that greets people, but my attention is already drawn to all the things in this place. Movies! Clothes! I bet they’ve even got shoes—if they’ve got the steel-toed tennis shoes here, I am going to be SO mad.

  I head down the main aisle, looking around curiously. There’s an entire display of T-shirts to the right featuring Voltdrain. He’s been even more popular since he did that press release about his daughter going to that school, Cape High. (It’s in Central, like that silly Panther—who I still beat as a super villain! I rock!) I refuse to wear Voltdrain material, but for once I have no desire to cause a ruckus about the whole massive display. I suppose, of all the heroes, he’s the one I can tolerate most—possibly.