Chapter 1

I was in my customary chair with my feet up on the stool, which had been brought over by the management from the library for that specific purpose years ago, since Benny frowned upon me using the table for a foot rest while I read the Times and munched a tray of petit fours. On assuming his position, he had refused to serve me my treats for breakfast for the longest time, or at least until I learned to pronounce them correctly. Petit fours, along with consuming a pot of coffee with a shot of bourbon, had been my daily breakfast routine for the past decade, or two. Or ten.

The other seven gentlemen scattered around the room were also silently reading at their tables. Each old enough to be anyone’s family patriarch, with sufficient funds to back up banks. I wasn’t the only one that still read a printed newspaper in the mornings.

The Club had been around since before the War of Northern Aggression. So had I. Not that I fought in that despicable conflict. Too many of our sons and daughters died on both sides, the members of the Club knew it was going to happen but were powerless to prevent it. Near the end of the war, I liberated a pay chest from one of the rogue elements while on a request to rescue Major Winter’s niece and daughter from being despoiled. They happened to be captured along with others in the train robbery. His reward was offering either of their hands in marriage, but since two years previously I had become the widower of two Cherokee cousins and was not ready to remarry, I declined. After many months of getting to know my character through weekly poker nights, the esteemed gent sponsored me to join The Club. It seemed that the war caused too many deaths of the former members, mostly from heartbreak and Sherman. New blood was needed to keep membership stable.

The Club didn’t have many Rules. The main attractive Rule for me was that women and children were never to enter. The club was never intended to be a meeting place for businessmen. The Club’s true purpose was an escape from the stresses of the outside world for men of breeding and wealth, which at the time equated to just wealth. For most of the 19^th century’s esteemed gentlemen, wives had always been the primary stress inducing aspect in their lives. Hence rule one of the Club.

I stopped aging at twenty-four when a damn Indian lodged an arrow in my left eye, stole my horse, musket, and hat. I loved that hat, the horse was loyal too. Had her for a couple of years, one of the Brownys, the second, in a long line of good horseflesh.

Had to cut that damn arrow out myself with a broken piece of flint since that damn Apache stole my knife too. My new, damned, healing-factor kicked in for the first time that day when I suddenly woke hungry and in pain instead of dying, as I thought I should have been doing.

Since that fall day in the 1600s, I hadn’t outwardly aged a day. No gray hair, no flab, and no befuddlement that the passage of the years brought to the rest of the world of men. There were other changes to me besides not dying and healing rapidly, whenever wounded. Not that I planned on discussing Those with anyone, since God was Feared, and Men made damn sure that the Bible was read and followed to their own interpretations. None of which were lenient or friendly. Christianity meant control in those days.

Still does to most folks.

Shockingly, a muffled cellphone rang during my musings as I scanned an article about the upcoming Labor Day celebrations. It had to have been the first time in two years of our mostly silent breakfasts. Poor old George fumbled for his case while the rest of us smirked at the fresh ammo to use against the old boy on this Friday night’s card game.

George Eastinghouse, one of the paper readers, probably hadn’t used his cellphone more than a handful of times in the last calendar year, outside of setting up golf games. He was retired and handed down the chairmanship of his company to his nephew. Only now he had to answer the noise maker before the tenth ring. All of us were paying attention, while seemingly not trying to, even Benny across the bar and Pete, who turned up his left ear. (Hearing aid, for those that don’t have one yet.)

Not that any of us cared about the conversation beyond one-upmanship. Benny in his early sixties was at least a decade younger than Ollie, whose wife celebrated his 65^th for him in March. He especially took notice to make sure to get as much ammo as he could. He owed George one.

“Hello? ... This is Eastinghouse ... who is this? ... you want Bach, why call me? ... no phone? ... of course, I know that ... I’ll tell him.” Click. He made a show of turning off his phone, stowing it in his case. Sipping his coffee while eating another egg that his daughter and doctor forbade him in her newest diet for him plainly revealed that the call was not an emergency. George would tell me when he was good and ready about the phone call that disturbed our morning respite. The building wasn’t on fire and it wasn’t about family. The rest of the world could wait.

Thinking of it, the last call during our secluded breakfasts was for me too. Not that I had a phone with me, didn’t need one inside The Club. I popped another bite sized pink frosted cake into my mouth and began reading about an international group of Heroes trying to refreeze a glacier in the Antarctic. Seemed some environmental group was fearful of it calving.

An hour later, George left me a note that General Abernathy would be waiting with a car. I guessed that I delayed long enough since Ollie, Pete, and Jason had left already. Outside the twelve-foot-high wrought iron gate was a newer dark blue sedan idling against the curb, with a small magnetic sign on the door proclaiming government use only. Even if the rest of the car was unmarked, only a fool would consider it other than a government vehicle. The old adage of military intelligence was hard at work again, I noticed.

A young Lieutenant stood at parade rest, probably had since she arrived in front of our two-century old club, long even before Abernathy placed his call to George. The scowl was a dead giveaway. “Sir, there is a plane waiting for you at Lee.” I kept walking past the girl soldier to my car, which was parked in the underground lot two blocks away. Abernathy should know better than to send me Greenhorns. Even if they were pretty as peaches.

This area had a lack of reasonable parking, mainly because of the obscene property prices. Some fools had even tried to force The Club to sell out. Once. The imbeciles even tried using muscle to get their way. When I threw their hired gun and his truck full of subordinates thru the responsible financial group’s headquarters, the harassment stopped. At least the muscle version of harassment did. When the lawyer tried to serve me papers for a lawsuit over the matter, he ended up dangling from the flagpole of their law offices, above the fifth floor. They too backed away after the fourth attempt when the local police refused to accompany them on their attempts to serve me.

The locals knew which side their bread was buttered on, and the Hero Association ran in the other direction whenever they saw me on the same street.

Winston informed us later on a poker night, after the dust settled, that that fiasco almost ended up going Federal. By custom, I had to ante up for drinks that evening. That was an excellent smooth 53-year-old scotch, I mused. Less than a year later, that financial firm had declared bankruptcy after all its legitimate clients canceled their accounts.

“Sir, it’s an emergency! I was told to tell you that it’s the Kraken.” My steps faltered.

“Where is it?”

“She is southeast of Newark. She has been plotted, Sir.” The fresh-faced Lieutenant corrected me.

To me, anything that big is an ‘it’. The woman who turned into the Kraken had lost her humanity after the Event, almost a hundred years ago, right after WWII.

“Lee?” international airport, I asked.

“Yes Sir. I have a car to take you there if you come with me.”

A car would take forty minutes in traffic even with a siren. Which this one didn’t have. “Hold this, girl.” Handing my briefcase to the young woman, while at the same time ignoring the shiny, freshly tailored uniformed junior officer glaring at me with an aggravated look at being addressed as a ‘girl’, I strode to get my speed up, leaping up and on the Prudice building across the way, building momentum.

The next three jumps, each longer than the previous, brought me within a mile of the Air Force base. The last two were mostly for height, necessary for slowing my forward momentum to a standstill. Landing outside the ‘Authorized Personnel’ gate and scaring the squad guarding the entrance to Lee, while still in my morning suit, was an all too necessary annoyance.

Ruined a good pair of shoes. Again.

I pulled out my wallet and held my ID to the young man with a rifle pointed at me. “I’m expected. Will you summon a ride please, Private?” I requested of the child not old enough to legally drink in this day and age. Another stupid law; allowed to die for his government but not allowed to have a beer off base.

“Sir, have you been drinking?” He looked at his watch, 9:07. Checking my ID, with the other soldiers doing little else. The young man glared at me.

“Yes, I had a bourbon with my coffee, just like every day for the last 200 years.” I admitted proudly. “Now are you going to call the officer of the day or not?”

“Sarge, we have a drunk Super. What do I do with him? He even has a fake ID.”

“What’s he wan ... Sorry, sir.” I received the NCO’s salute. “Let me drive you to your transport, sir.” The Sergeant exiting the bunker stopped and saluted. My accuser looked like he made a career ending mistake and had it deeply imprinted by the newly arrived Sergeant’s glare. At the minimum, KP for months was on the young man’s itinerary.

Builds character, I’ve heard.

The silk kites that Ollie’s great-grandkids used at his wife’s last party looked larger than the silvered rocket that they loaded me into. The eight hundred plus miles vanished below us, while I reclined in the Air Force’s newest Supersonic VTOL. We banked over Trenton at a much slower rate than the blistering speed we traveled in the upper atmosphere on the way to the north Jersey coast.

I prepared myself in the rear seat while the Captain communicated with his tower. “Sir, the Kraken is located five miles southeast of Newark.” The pilot relayed to me through my helmet headset.

“How do I get out of this plane and down there, Captain?”

“I can set you down pretty much anywhere, Sir.”

“Then do that. Skedaddle once I am clear.”

‘Skedaddle’ I heard the pilot mumble to himself. “Yes, Sir.”

He took me in fast and steep, pulling up abruptly before we touched down. Watching the wings rotate and feeling the plane shudder at the vector change was impressive. I thanked the Captain for the Hitch and alighted. Always enjoyed messing with the youngster’s heads while on an errand for Uncle Sam.

I didn’t have long to wait. A fifty-foot-tall purple squid with twenty-five tentacles, walking over land and crushing fifty-year old maple trees, was hard to miss. One tentacle more than last time, I noted. Not the cute purple that little girls liked, the Kraken was closer to a deep uneven bruise in color.

Once again, I tried to talk to the poor woman. “Allie. Please. Go back. Being out of the water is bad for you. You will die.” Just like the previous six times, this new form of hers had destroyed all reasoning within my old friend’s wife. She didn’t respond or change her course of action. I never was sure if any part of her memories remained besides her desire, every so often, to see her dead husband. The attacks always seemed to come harder and stronger when she recognized me, once I tossed the helmet aside. She remembered me a little, even if it was just from our previous encounters when she beached herself in the past.

Sidestepping her first attempt to crush me with a five-ton tentacle, I swung my six-foot dual crescent axe, chopping through the thick rubbery appendage. Our battle of chopping legs, getting smashed, and avoiding what I could, lasted less than a half-hour this time. I was getting stronger again, I noticed.

I prayed that I wasn’t in the process of evolving for the third time since my revival.

Dragging her sorry ass back to the bay took three more hours. The moronic protesters cursing me for not killing Allie were arguing against the ones protesting me harming her in the first place.

Allie had once been a friend. No one hurt as much inside, with what I had to do this day or during any of her previous forays out from the depths of the Atlantic, as I did.

Robert and I did what we could in those days, completely unable to slow Allie’s excruciatingly painful change over those dreadful six months. Together they spent the last few months of her sentient life with a few friends in Ocean City, an hour drive south of here. Every dozen years or so, Allison Moore returned to the place where she lived all of her married life. A marine biologist once told me it was a homing instinct for mating. In my heart I believed that not all of Allie was gone. Intellectually, no.

I hoped beyond hope that one day a Super would get the Power to change Allie back to her true form. Even if it was for only one day, so she could die in peace as a human and not a giant monster. Even if it were me who had to put her out of her misery.

I watched, lost in my memories, as she slinked through the waters of the Hudson to the Atlantic. Once she was out of my sight, but forever not out of my mind, I slung my axe over my shoulder and bounded back to where her chopped up tentacles laid scattered. Unsurprisingly, two semis were already there, scavenging her severed legs with a dozen people, a bulldozer and a small crane. When I landed after my last jump, I called out for the person in charge.

An overly stout, scraggly man that had been shouting for his workers to hurry, claimed that ‘honor’ of being in charge.

“Your name?”

“Kagmeyer. What’s it to you?” giving my ink and ichor shredded flight suit a repulsive look, the odious man tried to keep upwind of me. Not that I could blame him. For that.

“Well, Kagmeyer, are you here to transport her legs back to the Atlantic?” I asked in, for me, a soft tone.

“Nah, there is a good market for giant squid.”

“Then let me phrase the question in a different manner. Do you want to join the remnants of the Kraken when I return them to the ocean?” I didn’t exactly hope he would cooperate willingly. I had some aggression to work off.

“Ha, you do-gooders won’t do anything to me. I’ve got a permit.” He waved his clipboard.

Just then, even before I could see how far I could throw the lard ass, a convoy of dark green trucks arrived. I would have to call another one even with Abernathy.

The army corps of engineers arrived and took over, sending this Kagmeyer and his crew off with no compensation. They even commandeered one of the trailers since it was already loaded with chopped tentacle pieces.

A Captain Smith was in charge of the operation. He brought me good coffee and a change of clothes. My suit that I started that day with was still in a locker back at Lee. The loaned tattered flight suit had been covered in gray slime and soaked in blueish giant squid blood, along with Allie’s black acidic ink. The Captain even brought a potable water truck to wash me and the area down. Thoughtful, but damn cold.

Surprising me, he asked for my autograph and a picture. I wasn’t a Hero and had a long-standing public feud with the Heroes Association, which cared more for sponsorship and image, than for results. Common knowledge with the powers-that-be was that all too many of their tussles were staged. Or at least bought and paid for by one side or the other. That was the least of my gripes against the quasi-vigilante organization.

I did sign the back of a blank requisition form, voided out, to the man’s son, for the courtesy of remembering the coffee. And the man’s politeness.

I moped around Newark for a few days before heading to New York for a week of museums, plays, and a long enjoyable night at Madame Frederika’s fine establishment. Solo, as always, for the play and dinners, before heading home to Central City; I wouldn’t risk any of her talented ladies being associated with me. I wasn’t exactly beloved by the world authorities, nor the Super Community.

Arriving back at Lee, the same young Lieutenant had a car waiting. She even offered me today’s Monitor to read for the drive, along with a thermos of coffee and my briefcase. Maybe she wasn’t all bad.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

She and our driver silently drove me home.

Home was a seven-bedroom castle-style mansion. I purchased it for a song after the Crash, a hundred and some years ago. Since then, I had spent more on renovations and remodeling than what I originally paid for the estate. Many times more.

Nine treeless acres on the outskirts of Central City. The women who cared for me insisted on mazes and gardens. Since they enjoyed the yard more than I did, I acquiesced under the assumption that happy servants made my home life more serene.

Most of the house was closed off, with sheets covering the furniture and beddings. Lillian and Nancy lived in the coach house over the converted stable. Rebecca lived in the sole quarters on the kitchen side. As much as she resisted, I would have to force her to find a replacement. She had served as my cook for over thirty years since her husband was killed by the so-called vigilante Mutated Dog in a jewelry heist. The three of them alternated as my driver, depending on who was free and if Rebecca wanted to get out of the house. The General before Abernathy persuaded me to cease any attempt behind the wheel for anything besides trips to and from the Club, after my one episode of what he called ‘road rage’.

At some unseen signal, the corporal driving the car pulled to the side before my gates, the young Lieutenant stepped out and opened my door.

“Sir?” she tentatively ventured.

“Just call me Bach, Lieutenant.” I said, folding the paper and stepping out of the car.

“If I may.” Hesitating to go further with her unspoken thought without some sign from me.

At my gesture, “When is the last time you took a vacation, had fun, or met a girl?” She blurted the last in a rush.

“Are you offering, Miss Perkins?” I raised my right eyebrow. Never could do the left.

“I wouldn’t presume, Sir,” she retreated.

“But you would presume giving me advice on my emotional wellbeing?” Not that I disagreed with her. I wasn’t sure if I knew how to socialize anymore, except with the older generation.

“Sorry for overstepping, Mister Bach. It won’t happen again.”

“Answer the question, Lieutenant Perkins.”

Gathering up her courage, “When was the last time you laughed with joy? Not an amused smile. Sir.” The young brunette added the title, almost forgetting her place. Not that I cared about titles.

“Pete had a good story about one of his subordinate’s secretaries, his mistress and his wife...” I chuckled remembering the scene.

“When was that, Sir?”

“Christmas, I believe?” I wasn’t sure which gathering I heard it at.

“Sir, it’s August and that was someone else’s life. When was the last time you enjoyed one of your own?”

“Too long...” I admitted without reservation.

“What’s stopping you?” Pressing her advantage, she asked. I scowled.

“Lieutenant, hand me your phone.” She hesitated before unlocking and handing over the contraption. I dialed one of the hundred and eleven phone numbers I knew off the top of my head. “This is Bach. I am stealing your Lieutenant Perkins for a few months ... depends on her perspective ... Don’t care ... Until next time, Abernathy.”

“Wait. What?” she protested.

“Go to your apartment and retrieve your personal items. Since you volunteered to help me, you will. I expect you here for dinner at six. Rebecca will add a setting and the girls will open a room for you.”

“You can’t do that. I have a job and a career.” she protested again.

“Your General approved it.”

“You can’t do this to me. I’ll be ruined and laughed at.”

“What is wrong with being my teacher of fun?” I asked, pretending to be confused; thinking that she would be perfect since she was young and knowledgeable. She even was the one that suggested it.

“Aargh, they all will think I slept with you.”

“Ah, so being seen as my doxy is bad for a young woman’s career?”

“Doxy went out generations ago. Not even my grandfather uses it.” The young officer gritted her teeth in frustration. “Of course, it’s bad for my career.” I knew both tidbits of course. I wasn’t that unaware. Even though women had been sleeping to get ahead for millennia and would be for millennia more.

“See, you would be perfect. I need a teacher and choose you. Gate code is 1716. Dinner is at 6:00.” The tension crescendoed in her posture, before she internalized it and called out to the driver. No further words were said. At least aloud, I knew she was cursing me under her breath.

“Damn him. Just who does he think he is?” Slamming the door to her apartment, the aggravated, freshly graduated army intelligence officer screamed in disgust.

“Did Captain White ask you out again?” Tracey asked, without looking up from her computer.

“Worse. I got reassigned.” Flopping down on the sofa, Julie buried a pillow over her face.

“What? But you just got here. What happened?” asked her roommate from the Point.

“I opened my big mouth again.”

“Spill girl, what about your new posting?” Tracey worried aloud for her best friend.

“The ‘Most Powerful Man in the World’ wants me as his ‘Doxy’,” she bitterly complained.

“You got reassigned to the White House!” breathlessly exclaimed the larger blonde.

“Worse. At least President Forge is discreet.”

“But you said ... NO WAY!” realization had sunk into Julie’s friend’s face.

“Way. What am I going to do?” The pillow covering Lieutenant Julie Perkins’ face was snatched away.

“How did you meet Bach?”

“Remember when the Kraken surfaced south of Newark? I was assigned to escort him to Lee.”

“Go on.”

“When he returned to Lee, I was ordered to escort him home and he looked so sad.”

“So, you comforted him and he took you around the world. YOU GO SISTER!”

“Fuck off, Bitch! I only talked to him.”

Sensing the mood, the tall blonde felt that she should stop teasing her bestie. “Tell me everything.” After listening about their brief encounter, “Let me get this straight. For the next few months, you will be living in a huge mansion, with maids and everything.” Silence was Julie’s only response.

“Giving the most powerful man in the world a social makeover, shop for clothes,” ‘grunt,’ “get into the best clubs, best restaurants, best stores, maybe fly to beaches around the world, see plays with the best tickets, do things that no mere poor mortals like us can imagine. AND you are complaining??”

“He’s ancient...” rejoined Julie in a small voice, knowing that Tracey was right.

“On top of that.” The blonde Second Lieutenant was physically turning green with extreme envy. “In order to bring you along, he will have to buy you the proper attire. Dresses, outfits, jewelry, lingerie, stockings, bathing suits, Luis Vuitton bags. OMG. Think of the SHOES!” The brunette tried her hardest to not perk up at the mention of shoes. She really did. And failed.

Knowing her beloved roomie’s weakness, Tracey pressed on, naming brands, styles and the high-end stockings that would be needed for one to properly wear such, all of which were priced out of reach with their current salaries.

“But my career...” Julie lamented.

Thwack. The pillow bounced off the side of the blue-eyed officer’s face. “How can this be bad for your career unless you fuck it up? You will have access to someone that the collective Heroes run away from, the government officially tries its best to pretend he doesn’t exist, the one person that the army uses when the shit hits the fan, and the sole person that all the Villains are polite to. You know that this city has the least number of Supers per capita in the whole US? Do you know why?”

“Yeah, it’s because of HIM,” she admitted.

“Just remember, when you need a wingman, who to call first.” Tracey beamed at the thought.

“Ho.” Julie responded, unsarcastically meek, from her now sitting position on the older worn sofa, hugging a pillow for protection against the world.

“Seriously, Jules, when you need me, just call and I will be there. Just please be careful. He has literally billions of enemies.”

The shorter brunette smirked in remembrance. “You know when they said he didn’t carry a phone?”

“Yeah?”

“He had to borrow mine to call General Abernathy.”

“It’s 2032. How can he live without one? I thought they were joking.”

“I guess I will find out. Won’t we?”

“Well, we are assigned to intelligence; I can’t imagine the report that you will have to submit after your time with him.”

“Come on, help me pack. He is expecting me for dinner.”

I was leery about trying to reintegrate into society. I had lost too many friends over the years for me to easily make new friends. Lieutenant Perkins was right, though. A push was needed. Maybe even a shove.

Nancy looked excited when I had her clean out the Emerald suite. The thirty-year old maid bounded off, hollering for her partner to wash up and come help her. I made sure that Rebecca factored our new arrival into the budget, since, besides being my cook, she was also my household accountant. It wasn’t like the four of us ate enough to keep her busy.

The buzzer alerted us that a car entered the compound while I sat in my den, reading over the latest reports. Lillian met the Lieutenant and showed her where to park the two-year-old dark blue Ford. I wagered to myself that they had a designer on staff whose main job was to create the plainest looking vehicles possible for government use. Under orders.

Nancy’s other half helped our guest unload and carry her luggage to the third-floor suite, where the young officer would reside while staying with us.

“Bach, what the Hell is this?” Lieutenant Perkins stood in the door of my den, with Nancy right behind her, aggrieved over something or other.

“My den? Is something not to your liking, Lieutenant?” Might as well find out what the issue was and smooth it over.

“That bed is larger than my bedroom.”

“The mattress should be new though. Is that an issue?”

From the eye rolling and the imaginary steam coming out of both ears, I took it as a yes. “That bedroom is larger than my apartment, or my parents’ house.”

Ah. I thought I understood. “Would you prefer that Nancy empties out a linen closet for your stay?”

Her palm beat against her forehead repeatedly. “This is going to be harder than I thought.” she mumbled. “No, it will be fine. Thank you.” Turning, my new aide returned up the set of stairs, while Nancy, who tried her best not to laugh, followed.

“Nancy, please give her the nickel tour after she unpacks.”

“Yes, boss.” The younger of the two maids called out from around the corner.

In order for her to do her job correctly, she needed to understand more about me. Giving her one of the smaller bedrooms would only hinder that process.

I was interrupted from my evening amusement of the Hero Channel, HBS, by Lillian’s summons for dinner in the main dining room. Just the two of us on a twelve foot, two-hundred-year-old oaken table. Me at the head, and Lieutenant Perkins to my right. I had considered placing her at the foot, but judged that to be a bridge too far for the first evening. Half way through dinner, I did wonder when was the last time my guest had a five-course gourmet meal.

I quizzed Julie Perkins about her studies at the Point while we ate. She spoke glowingly at length about her time there, which kept the atmosphere lively. Lieutenant Perkins refused the crème brulè, while I enjoyed mine.

“Why don’t you carry a phone?” she broached, once I finished my desert and sipped my coffee.

“Never had use for one. I take it that I do now?” Nancy and Lillian carried one in case of emergencies and Rebecca never seemed to be off her blasted device. Otherwise, the home phone was good enough.

“Do you wear anything besides black suits?”

“I have gray and dark blue ones too.” Her facial response informed me of my shortcomings.

“Show me your clothes.” Seeing that I wasn’t going to get peace after dinner, I led my new guide to all things social into my room. She opened and closed the drawers, then looked at the bank of walk-in closets with a scowl.

“How many of the same suits do you own?”

“Two of each, thirty in total,” I replied.