Women of Power Page 10

  Stella sighed and looked again in the freezer. Thank you, Ben. Thank you, Jerry. There were two pints of Dark Defender Crunch. That would tide her over until the lasagna was done… maybe. She took one pint and sat back on the couch, and kicking off her boots, rested her feet on the coffee table.

  News anchors Tanya Everson and Bill Drake were back together at the news desk on TV. They looked as tired as Stella felt, though she knew good and well that she didn’t look as tired as they did. She always looked good, at least now that her shiner had cleared up; it was the Amazon blood.

  “… until they were able to find the dog and all her puppies.” Tanya finished the top news story. “Now here’s Bill with the hourly look at the aftermath of the invasion.

  “Thank you Tanya,” said Bill, his face now filling the screen. “We’re beginning to put together a storyline for the events that brought down the alien mothership and saved our city, thanks in part to viewers who took cell phone pictures and posted them to the First News website. Though it was All American Girl herself who reportedly gave the supervillain Behemoth credit for bringing down the great ship, we now know it was a combined effort. Here we see a picture of Skygirl launching the super-sized super into the air.”

  The image was blurred, but it was easy to see what was going on. Linda had thrown Behemoth up and through the force field.

  “Nice,” said Stella.

  The news people had pictures of just about everything—Behemoth slamming through the vessel, Stella following after him, and several missiles hitting after the screen went down. Most of the pictures had been digitally enhanced, and even then were pretty poor quality, but it was possible to see what was happening. The press wanted to give Stella and Linda and the Air Force pilots who had fired the missiles the credit, and to minimize what the supervillain had done. Stella thought that was too bad.

  “Speculation continues,” continued Bill, “over the mission of the twin space shuttle launches late yesterday. Experts agree that they must be related to the invasion, due to the timing and the fact that there has as yet been no announcement about the launch which marks the historic first time that three space shuttles have been placed into orbit at the same time.”

  There was a loud pounding at the door and for a moment Stella thought it was going to come bursting in.

  “Come in already!” she yelled. “It’s unlocked.”

  The door flew open and a man stepped inside. He was six foot five and perfectly formed, heavily muscled, and wore only pteryges—a kind of armored skirt, and a pair of sandals. Impossibly handsome, it was as if someone had taken the best parts of Leonardo DiCaprio, Bradley Cooper, and George Clooney, melding them together in some unholy man-furnace.

  “Is it not custom to lock the door?”

  “Hi, Daddy,” said Stella, climbing to her feet.

  “That is not what you are supposed to say.”

  “Daddy, I’m the only one here.”

  “That is of no consequence.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “All hail the mighty Hipparion,” she said, unenthusiastically.

  “Was that so hard?”

  “What are you doing here?” asked Stella, giving him a hug. “More importantly, why didn’t you come yesterday? You missed a hell of a fight.”

  “Indeed, I saw the aftermath. You should have called me.”

  “You want something to drink?”

  “Do you have Helleniko wine?” he asked.

  “I have Fresca or Diet Pepsi.”

  “Just water.”

  “Aren’t you guys always watching down on the Earth and all that, just so you can see a really good fight to get into?”

  “It used to be much as you describe,” said Hipparion. “Lately though, we tend to spend more and more time enjoying the less martial pursuits.”

  “Yeah, I gathered that. So why are you here again?”

  “I sensed you were feeling somewhat forlorn when I called, so I decided to visit you. I also brought you presents.” He held up an enormous leather bag that had until that moment escaped Stella’s notice.

  “Is it armor? Because I already told you I don’t need armor.” She handed him a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

  “It isn’t just armor.”

  “I’ve been shot with machine guns and hit by missiles and some kind of death ray and been thrown through walls—all in the last week, and I’m fine. You dipped me in the River Styx. I’m invulnerable, which incidentally means that I really don’t have to lock my door when I’m home.”

  “Achilles was dipped in the Styx too and look what happened to him. He also wore armor, I might add.”

  “Did you leave my heel out, like his mom did?”

  “Of course not. Hipparion is no fool. I held onto you with salad tongs, so I could get all of you into the water, which caused a whole different set of problems. Who knew that babies were so slippery? But all’s well that ends well. I’m leaving the armor. Wear it or not; it’s of no consequence to me, though you should wear it.”

  Stella guided him to the couch and turned off the TV with the remote, before sitting down next to him.

  “Do I smell Lasagna?” he asked.

  “Yeah. It’ll be ready in a little over an hour. There’s only one though—not much for the two of us.”

  “It will be fine.” He reached into the bag now sitting by his feet and pulled out two great round loaves of psomi, or Greek bread, and two large clay jars. “I have bread, olives, and olive oil.”

  They sat and talked for an hour until the lasagna was done, and then talked as they ate. Stella told her father as much as she knew of the events on Earth since his last visit, which had been in 1891, and he in turn told her of the many goings on at Mount Olympus, which mostly seemed to consist of who was sleeping with whom.

  “But you don’t see that much of Mom?”

  “Stella, you must realize that Olympus is not like living on the Earth. I know you don’t want to hear this, but you’re old enough for me to tell you now. People don’t get married and forsake all others until death do they part. Everyone there gets married, but they don’t stay exclusive for more than a few years. People get bored and end up with a series of sexual partners behind, and sometimes in front of, the backs of their spouses.”

  “Actually, that’s pretty much exactly like it is here,” she replied.

  As her father prepared to leave, he turned to her and handed her a 3x5 index card.

  “One last present for you, my starry-eyed girl. It’s my recipe for ambrosia.”

  Stella read the list of ingredients: eight ounces of whipped cream, two and a half cups of shredded coconut, half a cup of chopped walnuts, three cups of assorted seasonal fruits (especially pineapple, oranges and cherries, and if possible, the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil), three cups of miniature marshmallows, one teaspoon of ground nutmeg, one teaspoon of ground cinnamon, one teaspoon of the nectar of immortality, and one teaspoon of the divine exhalation of the Earth.

  And then as suddenly as he had arrived, he was gone. He did that. It was kind of his thing. Though she had eaten half a lasagna, a loaf of bread liberally dipped in olive oil, and about a gallon of olives, she was still very hungry. So she ate the only other thing in the house worth eating—the other pint of Dark Defender Crunch. She was just taking the last bite when the house phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Stella.”

  “Perry?”

  “Yeah. How are you?”

  “I’m okay. I’ll feel better after some sleep and a shower. You?”

  “Pretty much the same. Listen, I’m calling to let you know about the funeral.”

  Stella was quiet for a moment.

  “Dina’s funeral,” he continued. “It’s tomorrow in Detroit, of course… at the Downtown Synagogue.”

  “Synagogue?”

  “Yes. Dina was Jewish.”

  “I guess I didn’t know that,” she said.r />
  “You’ll come, won’t you?”

  “I… might be…”

  “Please come,” he said.

  “Alright.”

  * * * * *

  The synagogue was an old building, surrounded by a lot of other old buildings. The four story structure had been recently renovated, with colored window panes facing the street. It looked less like a place of worship than a High School built in the 1960s. It seemed that all Detroit was outside the building. The streets were lined with people and a massive metal scaffolding, holding the press from a hundred news outlets, swayed slightly when anyone touched it. Inside, the synagogue was packed, owing both to the odd shape of the building which while wide, was not very deep, and the number of mourners who pressed through the door.

  Comfortable padded chairs were arranged into rows, rather than pews. Behind a single row for family, were six rows for supers. Most wore their street clothes. Stella wore a black dress. Perry was as always, perfect in a crisp Italian suit. The group was notable for who was there—All American Girl, Perihelion, Strongarm, Windstorm; but also who wasn’t there—Omega Woman, Vanguard, Captain Hero—in fact not a single member of the Justice Brigade was there. Neither was Skygirl.

  The service was pleasant enough, to Stella’s mind. Not particularly Jewish, though a rabbi gave the eulogy or hesped. A few psalms were recited, but they were in English. The mayor of Detroit spoke, and then Dina’s brother. Then it was over. It took Stella less than an hour to fly back to Chicago, where she spent the rest of the day again, as part of the rescue and recovery effort.

  Chapter Nine

  Southside Office Building;

  Conference Room;

  “The last of the warheads are armed, Boss,” said Steve.

  “Very good,” replied Professor Destruction. “If only those super-powered morons were half as efficient at killing All American Girl…”

  “Let me do it.”

  “You, Steve? You? You don’t have superpowers and you don’t have my intellect. She’d use your bones to pick her teeth.

  “I can do it. It’s not about superpowers. It’s about applying the force necessary, where it’s needed. I know what to do.”

  “Interesting,” replied Destruction. “It seems that some of me may have rubbed off on you.”

  “Have I ever let you down, Boss?”

  “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Steve answered.

  “Then, no. No, you haven’t let me down.” Destruction peeled off his sports jacket, letting Steve catch it and hang it up. Then he began climbing into his personal battle gear. “Very well, Steve. She’s all yours. Don’t fail me.”

  * * * * *

  Having spent every minute since returning from Detroit finding survivors and sometimes missing pets in collapsed buildings, recovering bodies, clearing roadways of crashed cars, and removing rubble, Stella was not looking forward to another evening alone in the apartment. She didn’t have too much choice though. She still hadn’t heard from Linda and none of the restaurants, nightclubs, or theaters had reopened yet. At least some of the grocery stores had.

  With a great heave, she pushed the Boeing 747 to the side. It had crash landed, relatively intact, and slid into the front of the vehicle garage at O’Hare. Now that the door was cleared, workers would be able to get at the heavy equipment needed to move the dozens of other wrecked aircraft and get the airport open again.

  “Stella!” called a voice from the other side of the runway, where a police van was parked.

  The star-spangled heroine flew quickly over to find Glenn King and another bomb squad member standing over an unexploded missile—this one a product of the United States Air Force.

  “What’s up, guys?” she asked. “Want me to take this one off your hands?”

  “No. We’ve got this one,” replied Glenn. “I just wondered if I could talk to you for a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  They walked a couple of dozen feet away from the other officer and the unexploded bomb.

  “Have you thought about the question I asked you?”

  “What question would that be?” she asked coyly.

  “I’ve been working really hard, and I can only assume that you have too,” he said. “I was thinking that we both probably deserved a decent meal and a relaxing evening.”

  “That sounds good in theory,” replied Stella. “The thing is, all the restaurants are closed. Tony’s East isn’t even open, and I guess Backdraft never will be back.”

  “How about a home cooked meal?”

  “Um, I don’t really cook,” said Stella. “I can heat stuff up in the oven, I can microwave, and I’ve got a new recipe for ambrosia…”

  “I’ll cook,” said Glenn. “Come over to my place. I’ve got this deep freeze, and since the electricity is off, I’ve got about one more day until all the food is gone. You may be the only one who can save me. I’ve seen you eat.”

  “When have you seen me eat?”

  “At Backdraft, though you had to give up one of your steaks for me.”

  “Oh, yeah. I was hoping I had forgotten that.”

  “You were hoping you… and you know you’re on TV all the time eating pizza.”

  “Yes, but you don’t see me eating all six pizzas… I mean six slices. You only see me eating one.”

  “I like a woman with a healthy appetite.”

  “Then you’ll like me.”

  “I already do,” he said. “You remember where I live, right?”

  “Sure. State Street.”

  “How does eight sound?”

  “Is that going to give you time to cook?”

  “Yes, I’m going home after we retire this missile. I’ve been on for 36 hours.”

  “You sure you don’t need any help with that thing?”

  “Yup.”

  “Alright then.”

  Stella launched into the sky and headed toward the skyline, a smile on her face. Her smile dipped a bit when she had to fly an injured woman from the wreckage of a building, and went away entirely when she searched for a little boy’s lost puppy only to find it squashed beneath a toppled refrigerator. The rest of her day was bad, bad, bad. Only her upcoming date and the fact that aliens were not currently shooting at her, and that she didn’t have a funeral to go to, kept it from being the worst day of the week.

  She landed back at her apartment at 5:30. The place still smelled of lasagna, because she hadn’t cleaned up the dishes from the night before, nor had she thrown away the throw-away lasagna tray. She wasn’t going to bother cleaning up now. If Linda ever got home, she could clean up.

  A hot shower did a world of good for her disposition, after which she poured herself a bowl of cereal and sat down on the couch. Whatever Glenn said about liking a woman with an appetite, it couldn’t hurt to take the edge off of hers before going over.

  She took a big spoonful, and turned on the TV with the remote. The President of the United States, standing at a podium in front of a very large American flag appeared. He was in the midst of a press conference.

  “…ago, after the worst attack on our planet since the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs, I authorized a counter-attack on the command ship of the aliens from 61 Cygni. The space shuttles Exeter and Defiant rendezvoused with the shuttle Independence already in orbit, the latter spacecraft having recovered missiles from an orbiting platform intended to protect our planet from rogue asteroids. Aboard the other two ships were a platoon of special operations astronauts and the Justice Brigade.

  “I did not make the decision to launch this attack lightly, and I consulted with our friends and allies abroad and key members of congress here in Washington, and after carefully weighing all the possible outcomes. I am happy to report that the target was completely destroyed, and among our human and super-human operatives, there were no casualties.

  “To the American people and our fellow citizens of Earth, I say, now, we can get on with the business of rebuilding our l
ives. Goodnight and God bless the United States of America and the good, good Earth.”

  “Dude, I am fricking voting for you!” yelled Stella at the TV.

  * * * * *

  Stella dropped down onto the sidewalk on State and walked up the steps to the door of a sharp looking brownstone. She knocked, and waited, and then knocked again. She wasn’t wearing her costume of course. She had on a knee length knit skirt and a simple button-up blouse. Finally the door opened, revealing Glenn King wearing two oven mitts and, over his Dockers and denim shirt, an apron that said “Kiss the Cook.”

  “Right on time,” he said. “Come on in.”

  He led her into a cozy little living room, and then stepped back to the door for a moment.

  “You should always keep your door locked,” he said.

  “That seems to be the consensus,” replied Stella, as he headed toward the kitchen just beyond a small dining room where a table was already covered with food.

  “Have a seat,” he called. “I’ll bring in the appetizers.”

  “Do you need any help in there?”

  “Not at all,” he said, returning and setting down a large platter of mini quiches and quesadillas. “Help yourself.”

  “You look like you’ve really gone all out.”

  “The key is preparing ahead,” Glenn said. “I fixed all the vegetable and salad dishes as soon as I got home this evening.”

  “So, what are we having?”

  “Don’t jump the gun. Have some quiches.”

  “You didn’t make these did you?”

  “No, I got them at Costco,” he said. “The guys in the bomb squad have this rotating poker game, so I had a couple of boxes of these in my freezer for the next session.”