The Mad Scientist's Guide to World Domination Part 7

That gives the Executor a pause.

"To what are you referring?" it asks.

I drag myself onto my feet, using the wall. "I'm referring to the fact that Holland Masterson was nothing but a hologram, cooked up by another hologram. The only one I know. You."

I make sure the door is locked. As secure as it's going to get.

"And what made you aware of this fact?"

"Choice of subject, pal. A legacy of triumph? I'm no genius. But that's a conversation I could have had with old man Arkady two hundred years ago. That and the decor in Masterson's little drawing room. Out of date. Some things even you can't change, right?"

"Correct."

"How long have you been doing this, Executor? Playing my family off each other?"

"Why, ever since I was created, I suppose."

"You tried too hard. That's what gave it away. If you weren't worried, you wouldn't have tried so hard. And I figured out why."

"Please enlighten me," says the machine, eyes half-lidded, confident. A distant thud rocks the building. I figure this means they've reparked my auto. Won't be long before this room is flooded with very angry men.

I don't say anything to the Executor. Favoring my busted shoulder, I pull Abigail out of the impact sh.e.l.l. She is small and warm and squirming in her pajamas. She's been crying. I wipe her face with my shirtsleeve and set her gently down on the speaking stone. The Executor drops the confident act and stares, eyes glittering like beetles.

"When a legal descendant touches the stone," I say, "the process begins."

With that reminder, the Executor's automatic behavior kicks in like the last second of a magic trick. "Review process initiated," it says. "Answer the following question: What is inside you and all around you; created you and is created by you; is you but not you?"

"Your answer is sitting right here," I say.

On all fours, Abigail cranes her neck to look up at me. She gives me a s...o...b..ry grin and tries to reach for me. I give her back half a smile and my index finger and then I throw a glance at the Executor.

"Family," I say. "The answer to your riddle is family. Old man Arkady never had one, really. Maybe that's why he b.o.o.by-trapped the lives of everyone who came after him. Started the Internecines by creating you and keeping his wealth around forever, like poisoned bait. He was brilliant and maybe more machine than man and he didn't realize what was important until it was too late. You were the closest thing the old man ever had to family, sad and pathetic and wrong as that may be. Family is what he feared most. Family is what he always wanted but never had."

The Executor is silent for few seconds.

"Claim approved," it says. "Until Miss Abigail Drake is of age, the Arkady estate will be held in abeyance. Upon her aetatis suae eighteen, all goods and chattels shall be conveyed to her as sole inheritor. However, at this time you have no claim to the monies-"

"I'm not after your money, pal."

"Very well, then-"

"But I've got one more thing to say to you. So listen close."

The Executor stands very still, watching me like a predator.

"As her guardian," I say, "you're part of her family now. And if you are called upon, my friend, you will give her a life not imaginable to a person like me. A life of wealth and travel. Knowledge. You'll protect her. You'll bend every twisted circuit of your will to guide her, to help make her a strong and good and just woman. And in due time, she will become the matriarch of our line and your successor. When that day comes you will step down, Executor. And Abigail Drake will carry on our family name in peace. Understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Drake. I understand."

"Good," I say, ignoring a foreboding rumbling coming from the hallway. "Now I've got to go out there and settle this before they come in here and settle it for us."

"Are you sure that's safe?"

"It's as safe as anything."

"I'm afraid they've cut off my communications. I'm not able to cancel my previous orders. However, the police will arrive in less than four minutes-"

The machine is cut off as something big and loud happens just outside. But I'm not watching the machine. I'm putting Abigail back inside the impact sh.e.l.l. I tuck her in and set the sh.e.l.l on the speaking stone with the lid open.

"We don't have four minutes. If they get in here they'll shoot everything that moves."

"I'll simply talk to them, order them to stop."

"I don't think that's going to help much, friend. I made a messy entrance. They're understandably upset."

I check my revolver and holster it under my left arm. The knife I secure in the waistband of my pants, in the small of my back. I juice my stabilizers to full power, until my arms and legs hum with strength. Should last about ten minutes. Plenty long enough.

Only then do I allow myself one last look. The pink sh.e.l.l rests on the stone. Inside it, the world's wealthiest individual is blowing spit bubbles at me. I press my sagging holster against my chest so the gun won't b.u.mp her and lean down and kiss Abigail on her forehead. I close my eyes for a second, just a blink, and inhale her smell. Her skin is soft as rose petals on my stubbled chin and I remind myself to try and remember this detail for later- for when things get bad.

Somehow, later is always closer than you think.

I close the impact sh.e.l.l and stride over to the quivering door. With one hand I check the knife again to make sure I can draw it fast. I give the machine a stern look but the Executor knows the score.

I grab hold of the doork.n.o.b and put my head down. Take a breath. Flex my arms until the joint stabilizers are singing.

"You're a good father," says the Executor.

I hear the thugs in the hall outside, shuffling past each other, body armor clinking. I feel a cold spot on my chest where my daughter is missing. I know that each of us has to do our part in this city, like clockwork.

"No, I'm not," I say to the Executor. "But you better be."

And I step through the door.

Daniel H. Wilson is the author of the pop-science books How to Survive a Robot Uprising, Where's My Jetpack, How to Build a Robot Army, Bro-Jitsu: The Martial Art of Sibling Smackdown, and The Mad Scientist Hall of Fame (with Anna C. Long). His first two novels-A Boy and His Bot and Robopocalypse- came out in 2011. He is the "Resident Roboticist" for Popular Mechanics, and was the host of the History Channel show The Works; he has also appeared on the TV show, Modern Marvels, and the doc.u.mentary, Countdown to Doomsday. His short fiction has previously appeared on Tor.com and in John Joseph Adams's anthology Armored.

Entering the workforce is hard enough, but landing- and keeping- your dream job can sometimes feel impossible. This is the reason why career counseling and vocational psychology is a growth industry, even in a recession. Sometimes people just need a little help launching their careers.

In our next piece, one enterprising career counselor has identified a niche market: counseling would-be supervillains. After all, in a field that lacks clear entry-level requirements, it's hard to know just how to get started. There are no degree programs that can give someone the skills needed to thrive as bad guy. There are few, if any, mentorships to apply for. And as for fellowships and residencies, well, that's a laugh! You're on your own when you start out as a supervillain.

But with a career counselor like Angie, you're better off than the average ne'er-do-well. She's got just the right advice, whether her client needs help designing the perfect costume, crafting the successful evil plot, or writing a really clever monologue. In fact, some people might think she's a little too good at her job. . . .

THE ANGEL OF DEATH HAS A BUSINESS PLAN.

HEATHER LINDSLEY.

Carl has a pair of purple knee-length boots in one hand and a black PVC codpiece in the other. "Sorry, Angie, I'm running late," he says. "I just need to get changed."

"We can do it in street clothes, Carl."

"No, no- it's not the same without the costume. I'll be quick, I promise."

Carl is a regular client, and one of my first, so I cut him some slack. I should have been able to help him years ago, but I keep coming because he seems to get closer every week. Or maybe that's just what I tell myself. Living in Megapolis is d.a.m.n expensive, and a little steady income doesn't hurt.

I take a seat on Carl's couch, clearing away a stack of Commander Justice comics first. He says he'll be quick, but I've seen him struggle in and out of those boots too many times to believe him.

The comic on the top of the stack catches my eye. Is this the end for Commander Justice? I wish, but of course it isn't. I flip through the first few pages before tossing the candy-colored propaganda aside.

"You really shouldn't read this c.r.a.p," I tell Carl when he finally comes back into the room. "It can't be doing anything for your confidence."

"I need to keep up with his latest crime-fighting techniques."

"No, you don't. You need to shoot him in the face."

Carl winces. "That sounds so unsporting."

"Exactly. You can be sporting, or you destroy your archnemesis and rule this city with an iron fist. What's it gonna be?"

"Destroy my archnemesis."

"Say it like you mean it, Carl."

Carl takes a deep breath, checks to make sure his Master Catastrophe logo is centered on his chest, and booms out, "I WILL BRING THIS CITY TO ITS KNEES!"

"There ya go. Now let's get started."

At the end of the session Carl is sweaty and a little wild eyed. If I had the time I'd run him through one more focus exercise, but his hour's up.

"Good job with your confidence levels, Carl- lots of improvement. But you need to work on your concentration. You've got to be confident and focused when you take on Commander Justice."

"Thanks, Angie. But you know, I really think I could do it if you were with me. We'd make a great team . . ."

"Come on, Carl, you know that's not what I do."

"But it could be! We could be partners. Master Catastrophe and Mayhem Girl!"

"Mayhem Girl?"

"Mayhem Woman."

"Say it with me, Carl."

" 'Evil geniuses work alone.' "

"That's right. And there's a d.a.m.n good reason for it."

"But Angie-"

"I don't do sidekick."

"I know, it's just that-"

"Carl."

"Okay."

"So how do you feel? What are you going to do when you see Commander Justice?"

"Ready, aim, fire."

"That's right. Even if he asks you a question. Especially if he asks you a question. Confidence, and no distractions. Ready, aim, fire- that's all."

"Thanks, Angie."

"No problem, Carl. Good luck."

Every week after Carl's session I go straight back to my place and do the accounts. Villainy coaching and superhero surrogacy provide a steady revenue stream, but it's not enough to get out of this tiny bas.e.m.e.nt apartment. It kills me that what I'm paying in Megapolis would buy a ma.s.sive lair in the sticks, but until you're a big name you've got to be in the big city if you want to be taken seriously in this game.

I fire up the pirated copy of BadBooks I got from the Green Shade, and I'm not surprised that the latest figures show yet another week of high turnover and slim margins. My operating costs are ridiculous- insurance alone ate up half my income last month. There's just enough left over for a few more square inches of stabilized technetium plating for my Angel of Death costume, though I should be saving up for another shipment of weapons-grade plutonium.

At this rate it will take years to execute my business plan. I must admit I was hoping for more from the villains in this town. Some spark of genius. Some inspiration.

A quick e-mail check shows mostly the usual: a report from one of my insurance agents in Fiji, heated but familiar debates in various online villainy group digests, spam for p.e.n.i.s-enlargement pills. There's also a message from a potential new client who calls himself Burn Rate. I don't recognize the handle, so I'll have to do some research before I get back to him. Probably a newbie with a flashy fire-themed costume and a half-finished death ray.

The idea hits too close to home, and I decide to use last month's surplus on boring old plutonium. Weapons first, costume second, though it pains me that in its incomplete state my Angel of Death outfit looks like it belongs in one of those four-color hero propaganda mags. It'll stay in the closet until the protective plating covers all my vital organs.

I put on a pot of coffee and move from my cramped, messy desk to my cramped, messy lab. I've been tinkering with disintegration, preferably something that leaves an on-theme sandy or dusty residue, but at my current rate of progress my own villainous schemes look more like a hobby than a profession.

It's going to be a long night.

New client today, though The Puzzler isn't new to the game- he's been ineffectually pestering Civetman for years.

The session isn't going well. We're still standing in the foyer of The Puzzler's pent house apartment.