Project Northwoods (6 page)

“You had no right…” Marsh approached Houston threateningly. In response, the shorter man produced a signed copy of the actor’s consent form, stopping him instantly.

“Yes, I did.” Producer stared at Marsh. “You can take this one if you want. I made copies.”

“I will get that recording…”

“If it’s the last thing I do, blah, blah, blah.” The executive laughed nasally. “You’ve been hanging around Arbiter too much. How about you move along so this tasteful reminder of your time here…” He snapped his fingers at someone hidden in the dark.

After some scrambling and an impatient ‘come here’ gesture, the recording returned: “…
bunch of degens
…”

Producer bared his teeth and hissed as though he had burned himself. “… Remains unheard?” he finished. A smile stretched across his face as he squinted one of his eyes and looked upward, as though physically searching his brain for something. “That’s short for ‘degenerates’, right?”

Weston looked at Talia, then at Producer. He threw on a smile, though his eyes betrayed his emotions. “Standard agreement, then? No lawyers for…”

He was cut off by the man casually examining his nails. “For no epithets. That’s right, Mr. Marsh.” The two stared at each other for a moment. “Would you like a hat or something? Commemorate the occasion and show your commitment to peace and…”

“Can it,” Marsh growled as he turned around toward Talia.

“… Prosperity, the American way, apple pie, ma, baseball…” Producer muttered half-heartedly.

Weston looked into Talia’s eyes. She returned the favor, unblinking. He leaned in. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” He took a few steps backward, clasped his hands together in a gesture of thanks, then made his way toward the exit.

“Get the lights up people, good job!” Producer announced. The lights rose almost immediately in response to the command. “Strike this place and let’s get back to the station!”

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Talia said disappointedly as she walked by him.

“I never miss a Talia interview if I can.” He laughed and looked around for someone. “Janet! Did you see the left hook this time?” Producer looked confused for a second. “Where’s your assistant?”

“Right here, sir.” Sure enough, James had appeared behind them as they made their way to Talia’s chair.

Producer looked shocked. “You’re not Janet.”

“I fired Janet, Sol,” said Talia matter-of-factly.

“When?”

Talia took her red trench coat off the back of her chair before she responded. “Six weeks ago.”

“Huh.”

James raised his hand meekly. “You were the one who hired me, actually, sir. Keep an eye on Talia, you know.” Talia and Producer stopped and looked at him with a degree of annoyance. “Paraphrasing.”

“What’s your name, kid?” Producer asked.

James flicked his nametag. “Jam…”

Producer waved his hand at him. “Whatever, don’t tell me. You have a shelf life of about a week or so.” He looked back at Talia as James looked one degree more defeated. “No use getting attached, right?”

“I’m glad you enjoyed another opportunity to prevent lawyers from dismantling your precious station.” Talia wheeled toward the exit and headed toward it briskly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Have you been working out, ‘cause I mean one punch and the guy was down!” He turned to James. “Jethro, find a way to make that my screen saver when we get back to the station.”

James quivered and tried to respond for a moment. “That’s not really my…”

Producer was tailing Talia again, who had begun to pick up speed. “Did you book that interview with Zombress yet?”

Talia shook her head and exhaled loudly as she said, “No. Her office has yet to return a single call.” Her exasperation lay less with the villain politician’s lack of response, and more with the company that doggedly refused to let her out of their sight. “Just like every election I’ve covered up until now.”

“Tenacity, Jared,” Producer said, whacking James on the shoulder. “Take note of it. Just because you fail once doesn’t mean you shouldn’t keep doing the same thing.”

James smiled. “Like a crazy person.” Producer stopped and looked at James, unreadable. The younger man swallowed nervously. “Einstein… d-definition of… d-doing the same thing… expecting…” he stammered before trailing off.

Producer arched his eyebrows. “Different results. I got it. But think about this: if Einstein’s so smart, why’s he dead?” He put his index finger on James’s head and gave it a gentle prod.

He turned back to Talia only to watch her vanish out the back door. He muttered an expletive, shoved his way through the fire exit, and was almost blinded by the sun. The alley to the right terminated in a ninety degree angle cluttered with a number of large garbage bins. As James blundered through the door behind him, Producer checked to the left. Talia leaned against the brick of the theater, a cigarette smoldering in between her fingers.

“Zombress isn’t interested in running,” she said. She kicked off the wall and approached Producer. “I’m not going to waste my time calling a temperamental politician, even if she
is
the token villain in the Super Heroes’ Guild.”

“Then have Jermaine do it,” Producer said as he gestured with a thumb to James.

“I’m not going to have the dumb kid waste his time.”

James laughed at the absurdity of it. “I’m right here, guys.”

Ignoring him, Talia continued, “We all know it’s a sham. Let’s just let the woman have her privacy.”

Producer struck a defiant pose. “She may not want to win, but I’m committed to making sure someone thinks of villains first.” He puffed out his chest. “I believe in democracy.”

Talia stuck her cigarette up in the air. “Play the Cold War card, and this goes in your eye.”

Solomon Houston, owner of Villain World News, didn’t respond to the threat. “Come on. You gotta believe in something.” Talia raised her eyebrows and gestured with her cigarette. “Oh, that’s right.” He shook his head. “The eternal pessimist.”

“Realist,” Talia corrected, ejecting a geyser of smoke from her nostrils.

“Call it what you want,” Producer said dismissively. “I just don’t want you throwing yourself out of the traffic ‘copter.”

Unseen, Talia rolled her eyes. “Unless you can get the exclusive rights to my suicide, of course.”

“That goes without saying,” he said, clamping his hand on her shoulder as he brushed his way past Talia. “You’re needed at the station in an hour. You still have an anchor position to do.”

She saluted his retreating form before taking another drag off her cigarette. Talia stared at the ground and kicked at a styrofoam cup. James cleared his throat and she looked up. “Do you… need anything?”

Talia pursed her lips, and took a few steps toward him. She put her hand on his cheek, issuing a shock at her touch. “Do me a favor, will you?”

James puffed himself up slightly and said in a slightly-exaggerated lower register, “Anything, ma’am.”

Her hand was off his cheek now and gesturing in wide circles to his body. “Clean… this. All this. You look like a lumberjack’s pet gnome.” James turned a pleasant shade of red. “And knock off this idealism crap. You’ll be eaten alive if you’re too nice.” She shoved her way past him and disappeared into the theater.

James stared at the graffiti encrusted alley wall opposite of him, trying to make sense of what just happened.

ARTHUR

ARTHUR’S EYES WERE ALREADY OPEN
in anticipation before he heard Mollie chime “Arthur, it is now ten o’ clock,” in her high-pitched, computerized voice. Sitting up almost immediately at the sound, he cracked his knuckles and back before craning his neck hard enough to release an audible ‘pop’. Once limber, he ran his hand through his curly, dark auburn hair; the curls were impervious to the motion and resumed their position on his scalp. He rubbed the sleep from his brown eyes and rose from the bed. Eagerly, he reached for the string dangling to the side of the window. At his command, the blinds whipped upwards with a whistle. Late morning sunlight bathed him in warmth and gentle luminescence.

Just over six feet tall and naturally athletic, he cut an intimidating silhouette. This impression, however, did not extend to his youthful face and eyes that never seemed to maintain contact with anyone else. Without any other knowledge to go on, one would be inclined to think that the man was perpetually lost in thoughts of great importance.

The pallid walls of the room were mostly barren, save for an old poster of Nikola Tesla demolishing his mortal foe, Thomas Edison, with a lightning gun. Tesla was the greatest super scientist of his age, possibly even of all time, and historians still argued whether he was a hero or a villain. The fame or infamy of his existence always intrigued Arthur, providing him with what he felt to be, at least in his more grandiose moods, a kindred spirit in the ways of the world.

Poster aside, the room served as a sort of protective den for its occupant. To the left of the door a long, L-shaped desk occupied much of the wall. Its function began as a work bench until it hit the corner, then bent to a shorter computer desk. Above that portion of the furniture, a shelf of books stretched from the outer wall to where the closet jutted into the room. In front of the closet, the rest of the room consisted of the window-bearing wall, his night stand jammed in the corner, and his bed. The carpeted floor had piles of clothes here and there, the only truly clear path carved between the door and his chair by the desk.

“Good morning, Arthur,” the feminine voice called from the laptop on his computer desk.

“Good morning, Mollie,” he responded as he turned toward the desk. “And how are you today?” The monitor flickered before coming to life. The desktop background revealed a schematic before another window popped up in the corner bearing the image of a pulsing blue iris, vaguely reminiscent of a human eye. It was the form that his self-made program had decided to take, ignoring the option of a talking paper clip his roommate had suggested.

“I am pleased to report that I have finished the thirty-second diagnostic of your schematics for Project 238,” her voice rose and fell, increasing and decreasing in pitch as she spoke. “It is, according to my evaluation, flawless.”

Arthur leaned down and looked at the screen. “You know just what to say,” he said confidently as he bobbed his head back and forth. “Today’s the day.” He nodded.

Mollie’s reply started with a whisper before ending at a higher volume, “I shall send the plans to the printer while you prepare for your meeting.” A slight hum underneath the desk alerted him of the hardware coming to life at her command.

He smiled and winked at her. “You’re a doll.”

Arthur walked out into the living room before crossing immediately to the galley kitchen. The living space of the apartment was modest, but comfortable. A well-worn sectional sofa rested partially against the photograph-adorned far wall, the remaining bit functioning as a room divider. Part of the sofa faced a window to the street below, flanked by plants and short shelving units of books and various media. The television and its two-generation-old gaming system rested against the wall between the living room and Arthur’s. Behind the couch were the well-worn, wooden-floor walkway, the wall-mounted coatrack, and the door. Further still were the combination island-and-meal counter and chairs which separated the kitchen from the living room.

Arthur veered into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed the milk and the fixings for a sandwich. He put the meat and cheese on the counter and opened a nearby cabinet in order to add a roll to his breakfast. Whistling, he slapped the roll down and hastily assembled his meal.

Satisfied with the meat-to-bread ratio, he gathered his things and took long strides to the other side of the bar. He hefted himself up on the higher-than-normal chair and greedily shoved part of his sandwich in his mouth. The newspaper, assembled neatly on the counter, tempted him. He stretched, fingers grazing the edge, and slid it toward him.

“Desert Ranger Maintains Lead in Polls,” the headline declared. Below it, the handsome, dark-skinned super hero stood at a podium, having opted for a simple suit instead of the standard theatrics of a costume. He smiled, the gentle grey of his temples merging into short cropped brown hair. Behind him, the now-commonplace blue background repeated the phrase ‘Partnerships’. Underneath the photo itself, the caption declared that, “Desert Ranger responds to the disastrous ‘smoking attack ad’ from the Committee for Safety. Desert Ranger polls at 70%, Arbiter at 15%, Undecided at 13%, and Zombress at 2%, with a 3% margin of error.”

Arthur scanned the article as he popped off the milk cap with his thumb. According to the story, Desert Ranger had repeatedly slammed Arbiter for the latter’s support of heroic-private military contractors in the Middle East for what the elder man called ‘villainous insurrectionists’. Desert Ranger made sure to point out that the largest such PMC, SERAPHIM, was well-known for its leaders’ cavalier attitude toward the lives and property of suspected villains – especially in countries without legal protections for the more chaotically-inclined.