Prologues (Patreon)

Prologue One: Discovery

 Manhattan Reclamation Project, Kansas
Grid Reference FC/97A
Tuesday, November 2, 1999
8:32 AM Central Daylight Time

As the Jeep rattled and jolted over the roughly graded road, Graham Bakersfield wondered how he’d ever become accustomed to the idea that a nuclear bomb had gone off in the very heartland of America, just six weeks previously. Every time he really dwelt on the idea, he got cold shivers. Worse, his duties as a foreman overseeing the rebuilding efforts covered a patch less than five miles from ground zero. Normally, this would’ve been far too close in both distance and time for his personal comfort. And yet, somehow, he no longer really thought about it anymore. It just was.

On the other hand, he mused, it was all too easy to believe that some catastrophe had overcome the terrain through which he was driving. All was dirt and rock and dust. There were neither trees to sway in the breeze, nor birds to perch in them; no plants or animals of any sort, in fact. Apart from the Jeep, the only movement and sound came from the enormous remote-controlled and semi-autonomous vehicles that trundled over the blasted terrain all around, carrying out the basic landscaping that would be needed before the rebuilding could begin in earnest. In between them, here and there, were the personally controlled machines doing the detail work. The construction site was bigger than any he’d ever worked on before. In fact, as far as he knew, it was the most ambitious venture of its type, stretching at least twenty miles in every direction.

All of this was overshadowed by the fact that he’d been tapped to escort a VIP into the interior of the Reclamation Project. He’d never heard of her before this day, and he wasn’t quite sure who she was or what she did, but Samantha Colburn was apparently as Very Important as VIPs got; short of hosting the President himself or an actual member of Force Majeure, of course. From what he could tell under the hairstyling and makeup, she wasn’t much over forty (as he himself was) but she wore it with considerably more aplomb. Even the hard-hat and high-visibility vest required by regulations looked more like fashion accessories on her than items of personal protection.

The Jeep topped a rise and headed down toward the construction trailer that he was currently using as his mobile base of operations. A substantial antenna array on the roof allowed him to relay orders from company headquarters out to the semi-autonomous vehicles under his control. There was also a satellite dish, allowing him to maintain contact with the outside world, given that no cell signal would penetrate this deep into the disaster area.

Beside the trailer was parked the bus that had transported his men to the site, surrounded by the dozens of sets of wheel tracks and tread marks made by the construction vehicles. Around the back, a large overhead tank supplied water to both an ablution block and to the trailer itself. On any other construction site, there would’ve also been a diesel bowser to keep the work vehicles running, but somehow the ones they’d been supplied didn’t need it. The water tank on the ablution block rarely needed refilling either, which meant there was a serious filtration system at work there. Force Majeure had supplied the equipment, so he figured it was a superhero thing.

With a screech of dusty brakes, he pulled the Jeep to a halt outside the trailer. Shutting off the motor, he worked his jaw a couple of times to dispel the illusion that he’d suddenly gone deaf. “Okay,” he said, his voice oddly muffled in his own ears after the roar of the Jeep’s engine. “We’re here. Ninety-seven Alpha. What exactly did you need to see, again?”

“Your work orders for the last twelve hours.” Her voice was crisp and no-nonsense. “Locator beacons place several of your earthmovers at a significant distance from their required locations, and certain tasks have not been carried out.” She pointed. “There should be a hill just over there. I need to find out why it has not yet been constructed.”

“Hey, I entered those orders myself,” he said defensively. “If there’s problems, you need to talk to the person who drafted them.”

She looked him in the eye. “I drafted them, via a directive from Relentless. He okayed them, and I sent them out.” She climbed out of the Jeep. “Which is why I need to see where the hiccup is.”

“Wait, did you want a filter mask?” Graham reached into the back seat and retrieved one from the box he kept there. “The radiation ...”

The Colburn woman gestured at the detector mounted on the center of the Jeep’s dashboard. Another one was attached to the side of the trailer. Each was linked to a siren that, coupled with a flashing light, would warn anyone within several hundred yards that there was a radiation hazard present. Every installation and piece of machinery on site had one of these attached. “Those haven’t gone off for two weeks, correct? The Technologist assured me that there was nothing more to be concerned about. I believe him.”

“Yes, ma’am.” But as Graham got out of the Jeep, he hung the mask around his own neck. If Ms. Colburn was on speaking terms with the man whose scientific innovations had underpinned the entire decontamination and rebuilding effort to date, it meant she was definitely highly connected. But he was still a careful man. It had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Ms. Colburn reached the trailer and took hold of the handle. A corner of Graham’s mouth lifted in a grin as he reached into his pocket for the key. She’d get nowhere fast, doing that. But to Graham’s surprise, the door opened easily for her. She turned to face him; one immaculate eyebrow raised. “You leave it unlocked?”

“I most certainly do not,” he retorted, taking the key out. “And this is the only key on site. Let me have a look at that.”

With a silent gesture—all yours—she stepped back out of the way. He leaned in close to examine the door, which indeed seemed to be unlocked. Inserting the key in the lock, he turned it, locking the door. Turning it the other way unlocked it once more.

“Someone’s got a spare key,” he muttered, restraining his natural urge for profanity. “Stay out here. I need to see what’s missing.” It was clear to him now; whoever had unlocked the door was the one who’d messed with the work orders on the semi-autonomous earthmovers. There really were no other suspects. Where they’d gotten the key from, he had no idea. He could guarantee it hadn’t come from him, though.

Ms. Colburn did not dispute his right to go in first. “Clearly, we’re going to have to upgrade the security on these trailers.”

“Yeah, no crap.” He pulled the door open and peered in, ducking back quickly in case the intruder was still inside. Unlikely, given that his own men were already on site, but not impossible. However, as it turned out, the trailer was empty of people. There wasn’t even anyone hiding in the tiny bathroom, proven by the fact that the door into the cramped cubicle was wide open. He climbed up the two steps and entered, still wary.

The place hadn’t been trashed, which was a source of both relief and confusion. In his experience, people protesting a construction site had a tendency toward spray-painting everything they could get their hands on and destroying paperwork to slow down the work. Everything was as he’d left it, and that included the electronic tablet he’d been issued when he first signed on as foreman of FC-97A. They hadn’t stolen it, or even smashed it. Almost smugly, it sat on his desk in pride of place. Staring at it, he pushed his hard-hat back and scratched his head. “Okay, I don’t get it.”

“What is it that you do not get? Saboteurs are an uncomplicated bunch, Mr. Bakersfield.” Ms. Colburn climbed into the trailer behind him. “Destroying things and wrecking construction efforts are what they live for.” As she came up alongside him, her eyes widened at the sight of his desk. “My goodness, they certainly made a mess.”

He grimaced, feeling insulted. “They didn’t touch a thing. This is how I work.”

“Ah.” She shot him a sideways glance. As if to cover her gaffe, she took up the tablet, handling it with easy familiarity. “Hmm. It seems that the only work orders that were altered are the last ones you entered. They’re still on the screen. Just a few numbers were added. If this was sabotage, it’s the most ineffectual and ham-handed way it could’ve been done. We should be able to fix the damage in a matter of hours.” As she spoke, she tapped away at the tablet.

“Yeah, that’s what I don’t get.” He shook his head. “It’s gonna take longer to change the lock on the trailer than to deal with the actual problems they caused. What was the point of all this?” As he spoke, he gestured at the trailer in general. “I mean, what were they doing? Leaving a message? ‘We can do a lot worse than this’?”

That was when he saw the folded note pinned to the corkboard. More importantly, he saw the name written on it in clumsy block letters: RELENTLESS.

“Hey, what’s this?”

“What’s what?” Ms. Colburn looked up as he reached for the note. “Stop! Do not touch that!”

Graham would forever after credit his innate caution for his immediate reaction. At her first word, he jerked his hand back as if the paper were electrified. Only after he’d completed his instinctive withdrawal did he turn his attention fully to her. “What? Why? What do you see?” Whatever she’d spotted, he was damned if he could see it, but there had to be something there to cause her violent response.

“That note is addressed to Relentless,” she explained patiently, as if to a child. “All of this? Designed to bring the note to his attention. Whatever’s on it is meant for his eyes, and his eyes only. It’s more than your job is worth to read it before he gets his hands on it. More than my job is worth, for that matter.”

“So, what do we do?” he asked, gesturing at the offending scrap of paper. “It’s not like we can lock up the trailer or shut down the sector for any length of time.”

For an answer, she picked up the phone, an old push-button model that shared the desk with stacks of paper. An immaculately manicured nail stabbed out a phone number, too fast for him to keep track of the digits.

“Hello, yes,” she said briskly. “Samantha Colburn here. Get me Relentless.” A pause ensued. “Yes, it’s important. Give the phone to him right now.” Graham got the strong impression she was trying to avoid rolling her eyes.

A moment later, she began speaking again. “Yes, sir, it’s me. I’m doing that check at Ninety-Seven Alpha. It wasn’t operator error, as we initially thought. It was all a ploy to get our attention. There’s a note here, addressed to you. No, I haven’t looked at it. Yes, sir, we can wait.”

She hung the phone up, then released a ladylike sigh. “Well, that’s that. Relentless will be here in a few minutes, and then it’ll be out of our hands.”

Graham stared at her incredulously. “And you’re not in the least bit curious about who left the note and why, or what it says?”

This time, she did roll her eyes. “Of course I’m curious, but unless you have a special insight as to who may have gotten into the trailer, our best clue is in that note. Which we are not going to read.”

It was clear she wasn’t going to budge on the subject. With a shake of his head, he went outside and studied the ground. Unfortunately, the morning’s startup activity had thoroughly overlaid all evidence of anyone approaching the trailer. Before he and Samantha had turned up, of course.

When he turned around, she was standing in the doorway to the trailer, effectively blocking him from going back in. He looked down the road, shading his eyes and wondering what Relentless would be driving, to get him there in just a few minutes.

“Don’t bother,” she told him. “He won’t be coming by road. He’s actually a few miles away, but all he has to do is get in contact with Tourbillon. After that, they’ll be here in seconds.”

Graham still couldn’t get over the way she was casually namedropping the members of a superhero team. “So, what’s it like?” he asked. “Being Force Majeure’s secretary, I mean.”

“Please,” she said with genteel emphasis. “I am employed by Relentless as his personal assistant.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A ‘secretary’ is someone who takes dictation and types up documents,” she said. “I organize his schedule for the most effective and efficient use of his time. And when he has too many things to do at once, he delegates some of those tasks to me. Such as this one.” She seemed primly proud of that fact.

Graham nodded slowly. “Gotcha. So, what’s it like, being a superhero’s personal assistant? ’Specially one like Relentless?” A boss with a temper was bad enough; one who could also crush a house brick in his bare hand would bring matters to a whole new level.

To her credit, Ms. Colburn took a moment to think about her answer, rather than reciting a meaningless platitude. “Fulfilling,” she decided at last. “I’ve worked for many people who made empty promises they never intended to honor. When Relentless says he’ll do something, I know it’ll get done. Nobody stands in his way.”

He snorted. “Because, you know, he’s Relentless.”

She smiled slightly, though he suspected she’d probably heard variations on the same joke a thousand times already. “Precisely.”

As if summoned by her word, a vertical circular swirl of darkness began to form, several yards away. It quickly grew until it was about eight feet across, then Relentless stepped out of it. Accompanying the leader of Force Majeure was a slim figure in a charcoal-hued hooded cloak; Graham recognized this one as the aforementioned Tourbillon. The black swirl vanished as quickly as it had appeared, almost seeming to soak into the teleporter’s garment.

Relentless was huge. Graham Bakersfield was not a small man, but the superhero had to be at least six and a half feet tall, with enough muscle mass to make him look almost stocky. He wore a helmet, which doubled as a mask, in black and silver trim. His breastplate bore the same color scheme. Hanging from his hip was a heavy-looking sledgehammer with a decided technological theme to it; Graham fancied he could hear it humming with power.

“Ms. Colburn.” The superhero’s voice possessed the same sort of deep, rumbling power as an earthmover downshifting to deal with a problematic obstacle. “I understand you’ve found something interesting.”

Samantha Colburn nodded. “Sir. This is Graham Bakersfield. He found the note and called it to my attention.”

Relentless nodded once, briefly. “Good. Where is it?”

She pointed at the door of the trailer. “Still on the corkboard. We didn’t touch it.”

Fully aware that she could have easily thrown him to the wolves by describing the sequence of events in even a slightly different way, Graham opted to stay quiet.

“Excellent,” rumbled Relentless. “Stay here.” Opening the trailer door, he climbed inside, bending forward slightly to fit under the frame. Graham could hear the structure creaking, and it actually sagged a little on its suspension. Christ, how much does the man weigh?

A moment later, Relentless exited the trailer with the note in his hand. It was unfolded, though Graham could not see whatever writing was on it. The big man glowered at Samantha and Graham for a few seconds, then glanced down at the note. “Neither one of you has read this?”

“No, sir,” said Samantha promptly. Mutely, Graham shook his head in agreement.

“And you don’t know who could have put it there?” This time, his eyes were fixed on Graham.

“Uh, no, sir,” Graham stammered. “Whoever it is must have a duplicate key, but nobody’s supposed to have one of those.” He held up his own key. “This has never been out of my—”

“Not a duplicate key.” The observation from Relentless was as sudden as it was definitive. He pointed at the door, which had swung shut behind him. “The lock was picked.” Then he turned and focused his attention on Graham. “The official story will be that the system suffered a glitch. You tell nobody about the note. Is that understood?”

“A—absolutely.” It was all Graham could think to say.

“Good. Ms. Colburn, we’re done here.”

“Yes, sir.” As she moved to Relentless’ side, Samantha Colburn met Graham’s eyes briefly. He read a message in the glance. You’ve got a second chance. Don’t screw it up.
Tourbillon raised a hand and the black swirl emerged from nowhere, spinning up to the right size. Relentless stepped through first, followed by Samantha. Last was the hooded figure, then the swirl vanished.

Standing alone next to the trailer, Graham decided that he really didn’t want to know what was in the note that badly after all. Hero or not, getting that guy pissed at me is the last thing I want.

- End of Prologue One -

 Prologue Two