Bob Moore: No Hero

Bob Moore: No Hero

  By Tom Andry

  Copyright 2011 Tom Andry

  An exciting excerpt from the full-length follow up to Bob Moore: No Hero is included at the end. In Bob Moore: Desperate Times, Bob finds himself working with his super-powered ex-wife to foil a terrorist plot. But a new super, the most powerful anyone has ever seen, arrives with catastrophic results. Can Bob, a Private Eye with no super powers, survive when so many supers have perished?

  Chapter 1

  I snapped the last picture and glanced down just as the base of the tree burst into flames.

  There are a lot of reasons to wear flame-resistant clothing. In my line of work, unfortunately, it is often because the tree I'm sitting in catches fire. Well, maybe that's not exactly true; it isn't like it spontaneously combusts or anything. It's generally set on fire. Generally by the people I'm trying to photograph. Generally.

  As you might have guessed, I'm a private eye. As a PI, one of my most common jobs is figuring out if a spouse or partner is cheating. While, for most PIs, this doesn't involve a heck of a lot of tree immolation, I'm a specialist. The people I investigate almost exclusively have powers. Power to fly, power to throw cars at me and, way too often I find, power to set the tree I’m sitting in on fire from a great distance.

  It's part of the job. I’ve gotten used to it.

  This particular job was run of the mill. Fire dude, what's-his-name (it's always something like Sunburst or Inferno), was worried that his sidekick (yet another in a long line of barely legal, barely clothed, large-breasted supers with tangentially related powers) was cheating on him.

  Regardless of whether people have super powers or not, the fact is, if they are worried enough to hire someone, they might as well save their money for a lawyer.

  I'm generally a bit more on top of the name thing, but this was a rush job. With the stack of cash he set in front of me, I wasn't all that worried about his name. Of course, part of it was just getting out of the office and away from my phone. Some cop had been calling me every day for the past week. Bitter experience had taught me that no good came from accepting job offers from cops. Still, I couldn't ignore him forever, so I had promised to take his call just as Mr. Flame-dude walked in. That was all the excuse I'd needed to stall a little while longer – even though I was fuzzy on the details. I should, however, have been a bit more curious about her powers.

  In this particular case, the sidekick (Flamette or something) was cavorting with another super chick I'd never seen before. Apparently, her fling had some sort of super hearing or ESP because the minute I started snapping pictures of the two of them in a passionate embrace, she looked right at me. Shortly thereafter, the aforementioned fire started when what looked to be a lump of flaming, blue coal materialized in the client’s sidekick’s palm and shot directly toward me.

  Luckily, Flamette’s powers don't have the intensity of some of the other supers I've investigated or I'd probably be a cinder by now.

  Ah... that's right, he called her Cindar (with an "a"). Regardless, it was time to exit before they had a chance to come over and make sure the fire had taken care of me and, more importantly, the film.

  One of the advantages of living in a society of supers is that it isn't all that hard to get hold of some crazy technology - if you know the right people. There always seems to be some down-and-out super genius looking to finance his next giant robot or powered suit of armor. Do they invent cars that run on garbage? Do they solve world hunger? Do they create a truly wrinkle-free khaki? No, of course not. But ask one of them to create an Inertial Dampener to protect you from long falls and, oh say, buses thrown at your head, and they're all over it. Never mind that “inertial dampener” is just some stupid phrase I got from an old sci-fi TV show. They'll make it work even if it doesn't make sense.

  I shoved the camera back in its pack, sealed it tight, flicked on my Inertial Dampener from the belt buckle control, took a deep breath and dropped out of the tree. I covered my face and head as best I could with my arms, but as I hit the ground, I smelled burning hair. The Inertial Dampener absorbed the majority of my falling speed (or inertia), so even though the fall was a good thirty feet, I landed lightly on my feet. I knew Cindar could probably fly, which is pretty standard with the flame types, but she would need to stay high or risk starting a forest fire. Since the area I chose was heavily forested all the way back to the city, that meant all I had to really worry about was the partner.

  The thing to remember about supers is that they just love their masks. Well, it's really the costume thing overall, but they don't go anywhere without a mask of some sort. Cindar was probably looking for her mask (and her clothes) as I scrambled back to the car. I'm guessing the other chick was doing the same. I could only hope they had torn them off beforehand. That would slow them down for a minute or two.

  You'd think that a convertible would be a bad choice in my line of work. You'd think a tank or at least some sort of armored vehicle would make more sense. You'd be dead wrong. I drove a multicolored convertible that was probably scrounged together out of three or more different vehicles. I had picked it up a few weeks prior after I found my last car compressed into the size of a soda can and lying in the middle of my living room floor. All around was broken glass from my window. I had to pay a local kid with fledgling super strength twenty dollars to remove it.

  Not sure who did it, but I'd bet it was yet another in a long line of "satisfied" clients. That's just part of the job. You'd be surprised how many of those who threaten me end up as clients later. Short story: don't get too attached to anything. When working with supers, they tend to have a bit of a temper paired with a complete lack of impulse control.

  I arrived at my car just in time to hear Cindar launch herself from the new girl's backyard. Sounded like a rocket taking off. Damn, that was quick. No sign of the girlfriend though. I slammed the car into first and floored it. Given Cindar's age, I guessed she'd take at least a shot or two at me before she realized how dangerous it was.

  Dangerous, in this context, really refers to the penalties for starting a forest fire. If a super is caught doing that just once, there are all sorts of super groups that will automatically reject her application or kick her out.

  I weaved down the hillside trying to keep overhanging branches between me and the flying super. I adjusted the angle of my rearview mirror upward to get a better look at the sidekick. Through the branches, I could just make out that the girl was completely engulfed in flames.

  So that's how she caught up so fast. No costume required.

  An explosion next to my driver’s side door reminded me to keep my eyes on the road. I swerved off the road onto the gravelly shoulder, nearly clipping a tree, trying to shake the flying tempest. The back of the car kicked out violently, forcing me to steer into the slide and accelerate in order to maintain control. From above I could hear faint cursing over the sound of flames and rushing air. While a convertible is great for quick entry and exit and allows for easy picture taking, it wasn't so great at protecting me from an enraged, flame-engulfed teenager throwing exploding projectiles.

  "Come on!" I yelled over my shoulder, "You're supposed to be one of the good guys!"

  A scream of rage followed by a fresh explosion just in front of the car was her only response.

  "Yikes," I whispered under my breath.

  Guess she wasn't ready to listen to reason. The roar of flames from above increased in volume as she flew ahead, a streak of fire like a comet tail scorching the sky. She disappeared around a bend in the road; the trees and hill obscured her from my sight. As I rounded the curve, I saw her floating just above the road, a flaming lump in her hand. I slammed on the brakes, my car's nose dipped as I came to a
stop some hundred feet from her, shocks bouncing the car front to back.

  "Give me the camera, dick," her voice was soft but the menace was clear.

  "Listen lady, just let it go," I called out. "I had this camera specially made."

  No, it wasn't.

  "The second I took the pictures they were sent to a secure development facility."

  This is actually a pretty good idea. I wondered if it was possible. I'd have to ask Ted about it.

  "I could give you the camera, but it won't do you much good."

  Why is it I always come up with my best ideas under stress? I should write some of this down.

  The client had told me his sidekick was eighteen years old, which gave me a huge advantage. At that age, she was still conditioned to believe adults. The look on her face told me I'd guessed right. The flaming lump in her hand still shone brightly, but the flames that encircled her body started to subside. She was looking around, mostly at the ground, and definitely not at me. I could read the questions clearly on her face. Is he lying? What if he isn't? What can I really do?

  "Is that true?"

  At this point, the flames were almost gone. Cindar was a typical specimen of a super hero: tall (around five foot, nine, I'd estimate), deep red hair, and naturally pale skin with a hint of red. An aftereffect of her power? Of course the thing that I couldn't help but notice as the flames continued to fade was her lack of clothing. I guessed that she would have normally worn the traditional spandex outfit, but considering the state that she was in when I disturbed her, I guessed she'd forgotten.

  "Umm..." I cleared my throat.

  She stared at me, her eyes squinting slightly, head cocked to one side. I nodded my head and flicked my gaze down.

  "What's your problem, freak?" She was starting to get annoyed. Well, maybe that's a bit mild. She was already annoyed. Now she was getting furious.

  "Well," I couldn't help but smirk a little, "you're... ah, showing a bit."

  A few more beats of confusion followed by her own glance downward. Her face shot up, her eyes locked with mine.

  "You son-of-a..."

  The rest was lost in the rush of air speeding toward her body as she ignited. Once again she was engulfed in flames, this time white hot. Below her, the asphalt started to bubble and spread. With a primal yell, which may or may not have been laced with some choice comments about my sexuality, she reared back to hurl the still flaming orb at me. I did the only thing I could. I gunned it.

  I only insist on a few things when I buy a car. I prefer convertibles when I can get them. I like a comfortable driver's seat. But what I absolutely must have is an oversized engine. If I spend any extra money on a car, it is to beef up the engine. This convertible started with a V8 engine. I added twin turbos, upgraded the exhaust and intake, and had the transmission beefed up to handle the extra power. While the wheels could have been upgraded along with the suspension and brakes, I really go for the maximum 'getting away with all your body parts attached' potential. Stopping, road grip, smooth ride - these all take a backseat.

  I only had one hundred feet or so, and with that exploding lump of coal soon to be shooting toward me, I only had one chance. I floored the accelerator and held on. The rear wheels spun in place for a moment as time seemed to slow. Cindar reared back, her face contorted in a mixture of hatred and glee. Just as her arm came forward, the wheels found purchase and the car lurched forward briefly as I jammed the wheel to the right. The back of the car fishtailed out and I got about two feet before the orb hit just behind the driver's seat. It exploded on the side panel of the car. I ducked instinctively and flipped the wheel hard to the left, the back of the car fishtailing to the other side.

  "Crazy bitch," I whispered under my breath. I gritted my teeth and straightened out the car. I kept the accelerator pressed to the floor and aimed the vehicle right at Cindar.

  "What are you doing!" Cindar bellowed.

  Both of her arms reached back behind her, and even from this distance, I could see the orbs form in her hands. They seemed smaller than the others I'd seen - a fact that was confirmed when the first hit the windshield and exploded. The glass spiderwebbed but didn't give in. It was on fire, however, and I could feel the heat coming off of it. I was tempted to swerve when I saw the next orb flying toward me, but I held my course steady. Again the orb hit the windshield and again it held. The cracks were so extensive that I could barely see. The heat coming off the glass was too intense and I started to fear that it would melt.

  My clothing may be heat-resistant, but I doubt it could protect me from molten glass.

  I pulled my hand back into my sleeve for protection and slapped at the windshield. Two good whacks was all it took. The glass separated from the frame and shot over the back of the car. It landed behind me in the middle of the road where it continued to burn.

  "What are you DOING!" Cindar yelled as the distance between us quickly diminished.

  She put both hands together over her head where another flaming orb formed. She hurled it at me, her body nearly folding in half with the effort. This one was larger than the others and her aim was true. It flew through the missing windshield's frame. I barely had a chance to throw an arm up in front of my face. But instead of the explosion and subsequent fiery death I was expecting, I lowered my arm and saw confusion on Cindar's face. She snarled and shot up in the air at near supersonic speed, barely clearing the hood of the car.

  I spent the next mile or so looking around for Cindar, but she was nowhere to be seen. It seemed she'd changed her mind. But I had more pressing things to think about. There was the flaming orb on my lap. It seemed the Inertial Dampener had stopped the forward motion of the orb before it could touch me. It also seemed clear that it required contact to trigger the explosion. The orb had come to rest on my lap, cradled by the inertial field. I tended not to use the field for long as I was not all that confident that it wasn't going to give me cancer. Mostly, though, it was a battery issue. The field required a lot of energy and the belt I wore only had about a thirty minute charge.

  That is, if it was fully charged.

  Honestly, I'm not sure how much charge was left. I rarely pay attention to such things and I don't spend all that money on my car only to hang around after things get violent. Give a super enough time and they'll figure out how to hurt you. It doesn't pay to stick around after I've got the pictures I need to fulfill my contract.

  Luckily, the flames coming off the orb seemed more for show as the heat through my fire-resistant trousers was negligible.

  Two other matters crowded my mind. First, the car was on fire. The first orb that hit the back panel hadn't gone out. If anything, driving seemed to make it burn hotter. I could smell burning plastic, upholstery, and what I guessed was metal. If molten metal started dripping from the body, aside from the fire hazard, I might've lost my back tire. That would have made a getaway significantly more difficult. The second - and even more disconcerting - matter was the beautiful woman sitting in the passenger seat.

  All of six feet, pale skin, dark eyes, dark, close-cropped hair with a week's worth of gel holding it mostly pulled forward, she was gorgeous. Like all supers, she favored a skintight outfit. This one was constructed out of black leather. It was strapless, low cut in the front and back with a high cut on the thighs. A matching black thigh-high boot with a chromed stiletto heel rested on my dash. If you can believe it, this costume was much more conservative than the one she wore the last time I saw her.

  "Whisper," I turned back to the road just in time to keep me from running onto the shoulder again. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

  "Cut the crap, Bob," her voice was strong and husky, a poignant counterpoint to her chosen name. "Where's the film?"

  "Hmm... so that was you," the pieces were starting to click into place. "I didn't think you rolled that way."

  "Just having a bit of fun. Now the film. I heard what you told Cindar. I'm not buying it." She picked up the ca
mera case from the floorboards. "Or maybe I'll just take it myself."

  "You don't want to do that, Samantha."

  Her head snapped to face me.

  "Hey, I make it a point to know as much as I can about my clients, current and former," I shrugged. "If I'd known it was you in there, I'd have offered my services. You know, I'm quite well respected for my boudoir work."

  Her eyes narrowed, "Very funny. Now, are you going to give me the film or do I have to gate the whole camera to the sun?"

  Samantha Soft or Whisper, as the public knew her, was one of the more powerful supers on the planet. She had a part-time gig with The Bulwark but mostly just freelanced here and there. While she was an accomplished martial artist, her claim to fame was her stealth. You almost never heard her without her wanting you to. She also had a habit of appearing and disappearing when you least expected. I was one of the few non-supers who knew she did it by creating teleportation portals that she called "gates." I had a working theory that the reason she was so waif thin was because of how passing through a gate made you feel. I know I couldn't keep down anything solid for six hours after the only time she'd taken me through one.

  "Be reasonable, Samantha."

  Her lip curled as I used her name again.

  "You know how I work. The client just wants to know what's going on. I always show them the pictures but I keep the originals. It isn't like you super-types are going to use them in a court or anything."

  "You say that like it's a swear word."

  "What?"

  "Super."

  I shrugged and looked away.

  "Who's the target? Which of us were you sent to photograph?"

  "I can't tell you that, you know that," I replied.

  "Who's the client?"

  "Again, you know I can't tell you that."

  We were at an impasse and she knew it. The thousand pound gorilla in the room was the fact that she was a previous client; I'd done work for her in the past. She had wanted to get on with The Bulwark, but at the time, they already had a stealth type on staff. A few pictures of the target, Kid Shadow, drinking himself into a stupor, and suddenly there was a job opening. She knew I still had the pictures and even though I'd promised never to use them, she couldn't be sure. While The Bulwark had strict rules about drug and alcohol abuse, they were even less lenient on extortion. If they found out that she forced Shadow out, she'd suddenly have a lot of very high powered enemies - well, a lot more high powered enemies.

  "Tell me this at least," she took a deep breath. "Is this going to hit the tabloids? Do I need to call my publicist?"

  "Nah, my contract is only for information," I smiled my most winning smile, which, I have to admit, isn't all that winning. "You know how much extra I charge to deliver printed photographs."

  She nodded.

  It wasn't a joke. I easily increase my already significant fee by a factor of ten or more to provide physical proof. Most of the jobs I take are just personal. They don't need lasting proof, just something to act on. Whisper had personal experience with my fees as she'd needed the pictures to convince Kid Shadow to quit The Bulwark.

  She took a breath (at least it looked like it, I didn't hear a thing). "Fine... fine. Just..." She spent a moment, "Whatever." She rolled the camera case over in her hands a few times, staring at it hard. She tossed it up in the air and caught it. "Fine. Well, see ya, Bob."

  "Wait," the shimmering gate that had started to appear under her stopped expanding. "A little help here?" I nodded down toward the orb still burning with blue fire on my lap.

  A small chuckle escaped her throat, "Well, would you look at that, a blue ball."

  "Cute," I replied.

  "Well, Robert Moore, private dick, I'd love to help you with your problem, but you see," she checked her watch, "the world hasn't been in jeopardy for a few hours. I figure we're due for an alien invasion or evil genius any minute now. If not, I've got a young girl to comfort."

  "Yeah," I said, "that reminds me, what's the deal? I never pegged you as..."

  "As what?" Her tone was icy.

  I quickly remembered just how deadly she was at hand to hand combat. "Ah... well," I cleared my throat, "are you two just, um, friends or are you working together now?"

  "You mean, is she my sidekick?" she practically spat the word. "Like I need one of those!" she laughed lightly. "Don't you remember what it was like when I gated you?"

  "I try not to."

  "Exactly." Samantha pulled down the visor and adjusted her molded eye mask and hair in the mirror. It was sort of pointless since the wind was beating at us mercilessly without a windshield to stop it. "She's a good kid, but she's not really ready to hang with the big boys."

  "Kid?" I retorted, "She's, like, six years younger than you."

  Again Whisper fixed her gaze on me, "You DO do your research, don't you?" She tossed the camera in the back seat, "Not even The Bulwark know my true age."

  I shrugged, "I have my sources." I added, "Didn't know your address until tonight, though."

  She glared, "This better not end up..." Her head jerked forward, then slowly dropped. "Damn."

  I smiled, "Yeah, thanks for the confirmation."

  "You know, Bob," the shimmering gate under her started to expand once more. "You make it awful hard to like you."

  I shrugged.

  "Well, you better get one of those sources of yours to help you with that ball problem. Later, Bob."

  "Ah, come on Samantha," I replied. "Don't be like that!"

  As she drifted into the dimensional opening on the seat of my car she called back, "Don't call me Samantha, Bob."

  "Fine, fine," I called back. "Just help me out here!"

  It was too late, she was gone. Now I only had one chance. I hoped he'd be awake and sober enough to help.

  * * *