The Tower (15 page)

Sixteen: Changes of Heart

As the days passed and the sands of time ran on, I found, much to my surprise, that things were beginning to irk me a little. Well, irk wasn't exactly the word, but I'd started feeling a bit uncomfortable with my life as it was. On the surface, everything was as it should have been—normal. Go to work, be with my girlfriend, weight train or box, study school subjects, and then do the patrol thing at night. In short, do what I'd always done. Life was just perfect.

Yeah, life
was
great on the Tower and maybe that was the problem. Things were
too
perfect. Everything seemed to be falling into place too perfectly, too simply, too easily. It was almost as if a script had been written and we were all just following the director's instructions.

Carl's words about priorities had stayed with me and I made more of an effort to hang out with the other people on board, so that was getting better. Oriana and I never had fights over anything. We were always in synch about what to do, where to go, no lover's spats ever happened. Even when I went on patrol with Skree or Temptress, two of the most beautiful women on board, she never said a word.

After I'd returned from a patrol in Kobe with Skree, Ori asked me, “Heard you and ‘Skreechy' (her nickname for Skree), had a good time.”

Embarrassed, I said, “Just a patrol. We were on a stakeout and took down some drug smugglers.” Actually, Skree had destroyed eight of them by herself while I just watched. We then had dinner together, talked about her relationship with Blue Lancer, and took the shuttle back home.

“You jealous?” I asked Ori. She simply smiled.

“Nope, I trust you,” she replied. And she did. I trusted her as well. We ended that conversation with a kiss and then it was off to the Earth again for yet another rescue mission, this time in Chile. After that, more praise, more buddy-buddy stuff on the Tower, more work. Almost like a jigsaw puzzle; all the pieces were in place.

So was it really all this simple? Maybe I was just reading too much into everything, call it dissatisfaction, call it ennui…whatever—I had to know.

* * *

I was sitting alone at an outdoor café in Met City on a rare day off. Oriana was away on an interplanetary mission and would be back in two days.

It was a bright, sunny day, and people walked around, faces happy and smiling as if they didn't have a care in the world. Kids were laughing and young couples were walking along holding hands. No crooks running wild, no bad language, everyone wore a happy face, just like in the movies. A G-Rated world and right now, it was just so perfect that all that perfection was starting to cheese me off a little.

That insight startled me in the sense that I'd actually thought of it and astonished me equally in that it seemed too good to be true. Everyone was just ever so nice and no one swore unless necessary…and that was rarely necessary. And didn't anyone ever complain about what life was really like? I mean, what with paying bills, mortgages, or doing schoolwork? Was it really like this all the time?

At a café, munching away on a veggie burger and sipping ice-water, my mind wandered a bit; just watched the world go by. The burger was good and the water cold and clean. My water consumption had gone way up in the past few months, but I chalked it up to all the activities I'd been doing. There had been very little down-time for me. Nice to kick back, relax and just people-watch: Office Preppie-types, young couples, the older and retired set. Everyone happy, happier, happiest and, hold on a second, there was something I hadn't heard before….

Some men were sitting at another table close by. Four guys who looked to be in their mid-thirties, dressed in hard-hats, overalls, jeans and construction boots were rambling over a lunch of beer, clams, and fries. They were talking about their jobs and I picked up some negative vibes that I hadn't heard before.

“…and then I say to the wife, “How'm I gonna get work? It's like I'm going from 70K a year to less'n‘half, just like that,” the first man was saying, snapping his fingers sharply.

The second man chimed in, “Cleanups here, working on the roads after the battles, always working; man, a guy could really make coin back then!” Silence for a bit as the beer went down, and then the conversation continued. The third guy, a short, roly-poly type spoke up.

#3 said, “What I wouldn't give for another battle! When was that?”

The last man spoke, busily slurping up his clams and knocking back the booze. “Who knows? 'Bout two years, give or take.” Down went the beer. “Guy could always count on a fight to keep him working 24/7, battles galore….”

They all sang in unison, “And clean up MORE!” Laughter, and there went the beer again. After a few seconds, #2 said a bit drunkenly, “Whatta we got now? Office renovation, a house now and then….”

#1 cut him off, “Hey, work's work, right? Job's a job, and we gotta be grateful for them up there
getting
us work….”

#3 again…“Hey, watch what you're saying. We shoot our mouths off about how good it used to be and they might take it all away….”

And then the conversation turned to the usual things: Sports, money, women. I had other things to think about, and that was the Association. The little I knew about them came from the Search-Net; weren't there any books written about them?
Check your local bookstore, Bill
, so off I went.

At the nearest bookstore, I asked a clerk to help me find a source. All I got was a blank look. What exactly was it I was looking for? “A book about the Association, all about them, if that's possible,” I asked.

“No, we don't carry any books about the Association,” the clerk said. He was a middle-aged type, short, very stout, bearded and bespectacled. He seemed puzzled by my inquiry but was more than willing to help if he could. His nameplate read: “Hockspayer.” He was the store's assistant manager, he told me, and if he couldn't help me then no one could. Fine, let's see what he knew.

“Well,” I began, “I'm looking for something about their early days,” I said. “How they met, who the original members were…something more in-depth than what the Search-Net gives. And I'd also like to know what they've been up to the last couple of years or so. I'm a big fan.” He searched a bit, checking catalogues then rechecking them, and the result was nothing. The question was why.

“They seem to be rather private,” he answered. “They do a wonderful job, don't you think?”

I had to agree. However, and I felt I was kissing major ass, “being famous, isn't it natural that more people would want to know all about them, who they really are, that sort of thing? Don't you know of any deeper sources on them?”

“I don't think so,” he replied. “I watch the news with my wife. Snookums (
Snookums
?) always says they do a tremendous job of protecting us all. That's enough.” He looked at me again. “Are you a reporter by any chance?”

“No, just a big fan who wants to know more, that's all,” I repeated. He gave me a rather suspicious look, but did his best to find what I was looking for. No books, no magazines…nada. “If you want to know more about them, you might try getting to know them a little better,” Hockspayer suggested. “Snookums actually saw Repello and Skree exactly one year ago in this very city. It was quite an exciting dinner topic. It took up the entire evening!”

“Snookums” again—if I'd told him just where I was living, would Snookums like
my
autograph? Then again, no; I'd told other people that I was working in the heavens and all I'd gotten in return were “So what?” looks.

All of this was frustrating. This was the most famous superhero league around in this universe and no info at all on them. Even the Net gave just the essential details, only the bones and not the meat. And why did I have the sneaking suspicion that something was being hidden? Just a feeling, that's all it was, but I had to know more. The same thing happened at the next store and then the next. The answer was always the same: Zilch.

* * *

“Clean-up crew,” said Avenger. We were back at the Tower, in the cafeteria. He was going through a plate of eggs I'd made for him. I asked him about the conversation I'd heard and he gave me the essentials.

“Who's got time to eat?” he asked. “We have a job to do.”

Yeah…right
. He took another mouthful of food and then explained it all to me.

“Back when the super-villains were still around, our battles inevitably caused a lot of damage. Perhaps you don't realize how much it cost the cities we were in to repair everything. One battle with the Inner-Gang Crime Syndicate cost Los Angeles over two hundred million dollars and most of the downtown area was destroyed. Another battle with the Hidden Six in Chicago cost over four hundred million, not to mention the number of homeless people that conflict left.”

He paused to eat some more, and he was also going through the water like it was going to disappear tomorrow, so I got up and grabbed another pitcher and joined him. He thanked me and continued the explanation. “We were often too busy to fix everything ourselves, so,” he looked around briefly, making sure no one was listening too closely, “Halyard Enterprises made a number of contracts in North America employing local crews to rebuild what had been destroyed. Good for the economy, good for the people. They seemed to be happy enough then.”

“But not now; I guess a lot of people liked it better when there was more action going on.”

Avenger considered this a little then shook his head slightly. “War is good for business, but peace is better in the long run.”

“Did your companies make a profit from it?”

He shook his head sharply at that question, almost as if he resented it. “We're not in it for the money,” he stated flatly. “And before you think we're a group of elitist snobs, understand this: More than half of the hospitals, factories, training schools and farms in North America are owned in some manner by me or one of my subsidiary construction companies. That's why unemployment in this hemisphere is so low.”

“So everyone has a job and we're all happy.” What he said didn't quite fit. Why, I just couldn't place it, but…

“…not everyone's happy,” he was explaining. “Democracy doesn't work that way. But it's infinitely preferable to what the situation was like before. Before we started this group, everything was close to anarchy. The local police were outnumbered, the criminals were running wild and society was on the verge of breaking down. With what you told me about how your governments operate I'm surprised there isn't total lawlessness on your world.”

Avenger paused for a second, downed more water. “Democratic governments didn't want to call in their armies or their National Guard; it would have been too repressive. So, we offered our services and they accepted. All we did was put a stop to the lawlessness. The police have an easier time because of us, and if you already haven't noticed, there's very little crime.”

I had noticed that, in fact, there were very few patrol cars on the streets; I guess the police were still at the donut shops. He continued, “We're not controlling anyone's actions unless they step outside the law. We're peacekeepers, and having almost full employment has proved an excellent deterrent to crime.”

“What about the governments?” I asked, sipping from my own glass. “Didn't they protest when all the damage was done? Or when you stepped in to help financially?”

He gave me a look that made me feel totally unaware—I actually flushed a little. “On the contrary, they were grateful that someone helped out. You have a lot to learn about economics.” I shrugged, guess I still had a lot to learn.

“Keep in mind,” he continued, “that many of the local governments aren't all that wealthy and they're constantly worrying over where to build, who to hire, what to do. With us aiding them, it takes away a lot of the financial pressure.”

I wasn't about to argue with that. Thinking about it, what he'd just told me was true. They hadn't taken over, not like some other groups had taken over—and I had to laugh at this—another comic-book type universe. While they could be considered somewhat distant at times, they were never arrogant, never domineering.

As for their personal history, he just told me to let it go. “This is all about privacy,” he stated. “We've never given many interviews to the press, primarily because we want our privacy and also the privacy of the workers up here to be protected. He paused, refilled his water glass and continued his speech.

“Understand that when we first formed the group, there were a lot of questions by the public, the local police forces, the individual governments; everyone. In the past, we'd all gone solo, fighting crime alone. The formation of a league of heroes was something new for this planet. Many of the people, like Skree, joined up as they had nowhere else to go. But we all knew we had talents to share and to help out.

“Naturally there were questions about who was in charge, what would be done and how it would be done. We just felt that it was best to do what we do best. Guard the planet and leave it at that. The press has stayed off our backs and so have the book publishers. Besides, what we do is a matter of public record anyway.”

This much was also true. The news archives on the Net had given extensive details of their past battles with the gangs and the other aliens that had come to Earth before, up until the last two years, that is. After that, though, just not there.

His comments made me think about something else. “How do you know about what's going on Earth-side all the time?”

“The monitors on the Main Bridge,” he answered. “They're tied in to all the communication satellites orbiting the planet. And before you think that we're spying on everyone, think again; we use them to detect crime wherever it happens and that's all.”