Thrusts of Justice (Chooseomatic Books) Read online

  You’re almost ready to commit and fight the little twerp when a big, jellyfish-shaped craft the size of a bus pops out of the night sky above you. Holy crap! First meteors and superheroes, and now alien invaders? Cleveland is insane today. The craft fires a beam of blue energy at the Nightwatchman, just missing him as he leaps out of the way. You get a better look at it in the glow, and realize that it’s made of the same type of metal and bears the same distinctive markings as the Cosmic Guardian you saw earlier.

  The Guardian always claimed to be part of an intergalactic peace-keeping force called the Cosmic Guard. Could this ship be one of theirs? You look more closely at the way it moves, and realize that it might very well be a single, enormous alien in a Guardian battlesuit.

  And it’s clearly after the Nightwatchman poser. Is this giant space jellyfish a villain? Maybe you should join forces with it and help take him down. Then again, the alien is scary as hell, and there’s no guarantee that it won’t attack you next. Perhaps you should pretend to be on Nightwatchman’s side, at least until you neutralize this new threat.

  ▶ If you join with Nightwatchman to battle the Cosmic Guardian, click here for page 185.

  ▶ If you team up with the Cosmic Guardian to put the hurt on Nightwatchman, click here for page 270.

  38

  You came looking for evidence that Crexidyne was working with the Cosmic Guard, and what you discover pretty much answers that question straight up. The elevator doors open to a rooftop absolutely swarming with Guardians: hundreds of them, setting up enormous pieces of machinery with a few human beings sprinkled among them, who appear to be in charge.

  As one, they all stop what they’re doing and look in your direction. Uh-oh. It seems you’ve found yourself knee-deep in stage two of Nancy’s plan, whether you like it or not. Okay — just act cool. Pretend like you belong here.

  You try to strike up a conversation with a human supervisor, but he’s clearly freaked out by the fact that one of these alien robot things is even shaped like a person, much less speaking English to him. As you lay on the charm, you’re grabbed from behind by one set of alien appendages and then another. Before you have a chance to react, dozens of them are on top of you in a big armored dogpile.

  They begin tearing your battlesuit from you piece by piece. After a few terrified moments, you come to realize that it’s the suit they’re interested in — they’re destroying your armor with zeal, but don’t seem particularly concerned with what’s inside it. In fact, as they peel the last fragments of it from your body and continue ripping it to shreds, you have a glimmer of hope that you may even escape unnoticed.

  Then, almost as an afterthought, one of them kicks you off the roof.

  THE END

  39

  “It’s okay, Terry,” Octavia says. “Just try to relax. You’re among friends now.”

  He responds by lunging at Magnifica, but she leaps into the air just in time to avoid his frenzied grasp. He screams in rage, then immediately turns his gaze to you.

  Octavia’s eyes are clenched shut. “Come back to us, Terry. You don’t have to let it control you.” Apparently he does, though. He falls to his knees, then staggers back on his feet, his entire body shaking. You can’t see his face through the Guardian helmet, but you imagine a lot of clenched teeth and bulging veins. He slowly takes a step toward you, one fist raised.

  “He needs to feel the touch of a human being so he can remember who he is!” Octavia says.

  Magnifica is still hovering. “I ain’t touching him,” she says.

  “Only the warm embrace of humanity can save him,” Octavia insists, her face tense with focus. “I can’t do it myself — I have to concentrate on this!”

  The Ox is still approaching, and you can’t imagine there’s anything other than murder on his mind. Seriously, how is he supposed to even feel the warm embrace of humanity through all that alien steel? “I don’t think this is—”

  “Just hug him, damn it!” Octavia says. “It’s the only way to calm him down!”

  ▶ Okay, fine. If you hug him, click here for page 281.

  ▶ Screw that. If you fall back on Magnifica’s beating-the-crap-out-of-him plan, click here for page 182.

  40

  “Fine,” the Ox says. “We do it your way. But I’m still pissed off about being attacked by robots from space. Oh, hey, Tink.” He introduces you to a pudgy man in his mid-forties emerging from behind an overturned table. “This is Tinker, my costume guy. Dude, the horns broke again.”

  “I’m a weapons manufacturer, mostly,” the man says, offering you a hand to shake. “And I told you, Ox, you have to break the walls with your fists, not your head.”

  Tinker tells you that he recognized the man in the tweed jacket as Carlo Moretti of the Crexidyne Corporation, a multi-national conglomerate run by notorious villain Reginald Thorpe. If the Cosmic Guard is in league with them, it’s definitely bad news. Tinker has done some contract work for Crexidyne and has accumulated a file of sensitive information. You and the Ox follow him back to his home, which turns out to be a tiny, squalid house across the bridge in Newark.

  Tinker’s files are in even worse shape than his living room. He pulls out a big brown accordion folder full of miscellaneous receipts and take-out menus, insisting that copies of secret Crexidyne papers are scattered throughout.

  The Ox is peeking out the window through the blinds. “Uh, guys? One of those Cosmic Guardian things is outside. Don’t worry, though — I’ve been wantin’ to beat up some more stuff anyway.”

  He rushes out the door to tussle, and you get to work. Some of the papers actually look fairly interesting. Tinker had apparently developed a long-range targeting system for Crexidyne, but they never told him what it was intended to be used for.

  Ox pokes his head inside the door. “I killed the one, but now there’s like six more, plus a big jellyfish one the size of a Winnebago,” he says through a wide grin. “Just so you know.”

  There are bits and pieces of other documents and memos, and schematics for some kind of satellite. Could this be what they’re working on with the Guardians? It all seems to be lumped together under something called Project Bogotá.

  “Here come the superheroes!” the Ox yells from outside, sounding a bit more frazzled than he did a minute ago. “If Megawatt or Magnifico show up, we might be in trouble. Crap, is that the Phenomenal Three?”

  Something about Bogotá jogs your memory, so you get on Tinker’s computer and do a quick search. Sure enough, a few months ago there was a mysterious incident in Bogotá, Colombia, in which several diplomats were killed by what was reported to be a giant column of fire from the sky. Six different terrorist organizations claimed responsibility, but none that possessed anything like the technology necessary to pull such a thing off.

  “I think it’s some kind of satellite laser weapon,” you say.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Tinker says. “It would only be good for taking out a single target, and the expense would be astronomical. Crexidyne has quieter, cheaper ways to pull off a simple assassination. When would they even use something like that?”

  The Ox stumbles back inside, panting and dusting off his clothes. “Wooo!” he crows. “Aliens can’t touch me! Superheroes can’t touch me! What else you got?”

  You and Tinker exchange a terrified glance just as the huge, orange beam blasts through the roof and completely incinerates all three of you.

  THE END

  42

  You have no idea what’s going on here, but something isn’t right and your gut tells you that Crexidyne is the key. Also, you have to admit that you’d really like to meet Nancy North. How can you get in touch with her, though? Contact Nancy North, you think. Could it be that easy? Sure enough, an e-mail window shows up on the screen with her address auto-filled. This stuff is awesome. You peck out a brief but urgent message and send it off. You hope that does the trick.

  As you’re figuring out how to work the chamber doors, a new
message pops up on your glove. “Long time. Meet me in old spot tonight, 10 p.m. — N” Old spot? Maybe there’s something in your wrist computer’s files about that? After a bit of searching, your best guess is that she’s referring to the water tower on top of the New York Globe building. Which would mean it really has been a long time, since Nancy left the Globe for an anchor gig at the NBS Nightly News in the late ’90s. You’ll have to drive all the way through Pennsylvania and New Jersey to get there, though, and you’re not even sure you can make it by 10.

  To the Watchmobile, you think. Your wristscreen has no response. Sigh. To the 1996 Ford Taurus.

  The long drive offers plenty of time to plan your meeting with the news icon. According to her book, the Nightwatchman always stuck to the shadows and disguised his voice, so if you do the same, maybe you can pull off this charade. And for the record, yes, you’ve read No Nonsense, the 1989 tell-all by Nancy North, cover to cover. You also once mailed her your sprawling, conspiracy theory-filled thesis on the secret identities of the Justice Squadron back when you were in journalism school. She didn’t write back. It wasn’t your proudest moment.

  By the time you arrive and find a route up to the water tower that doesn’t involve a grappling hook, it’s almost 11 and Nancy is waiting. “You’re late,” she says. She must be in her mid-sixties by now, but she still looks good. Really good, in fact.

  You answer in the deepest, most gravelly voice you can muster. “Had to make sure I wasn’t followed.” That sounds like something the Nightwatchman would say, right? You make every effort to conceal yourself in the darkness.

  “Jesus, what happened to your voice?”

  At this moment you’re acutely aware of the degree to which you are not the Nightwatchman. “Uh, nothing.” Man, that really hurts your throat, too. “A cold.”

  “Seriously, do you want a lozenge? I have some Sucrets.” She starts digging in her purse.

  “No lozenge,” you croak. This isn’t going as well as you hoped. “What can you tell me about Crexidyne, the Ox, and Brain Stem?”

  “Hmm,” she says. This woman is cool as a cucumber, and you can’t tell yet if she’s buying you as the legendary vigilante. “I know they’re both being tracked by Crexidyne’s top brass. They’ve got some kind of program that keeps tabs on superhumans, and from what I can tell, their interest is spread evenly between heroes and villains. I also know Brain Stem is missing. Is he dead? Is that what this is about?”

  You pause for a moment, wondering if you should fill her in. How much do you really know about Nancy North? Can you trust her?

  “Can’t talk about that,” you reply. “Tell me more about the surveillance.”

  She takes a step back, perhaps trying to get a better look at you. “It goes straight to the top, whatever it is. It has Thorpe’s fingerprints all over it.” As Crexidyne’s CEO, Reginald Thorpe’s name is synonymous with mad power grabs and dirty backroom deals, and even though he’s a normal human, over the years he’s achieved sort of an honorary supervillain status. “And it’s been ramping up,” Nancy continues. “If they did kill Brain Stem, it’s just the beginning.”

  You can’t help but wonder if you’re in over your head. “Listen,” Nancy says. “I know you’ve been doing this a long time, but Thorpe has resources that you wouldn’t believe.” A long time? Yes! She thinks you’re the real thing! “If you’re going after him, don’t go lone-wolf. Consider some backup on this one.”

  “I’ll take that under consideration,” you say. The five-syllable word sounds particularly ridiculous in your forced Cookie-Monster grumble.

  “You know that there’s only one person you can really trust,” Nancy says as you retreat into the shadows. “With the jet, you could be in Broward County in 45 minutes.”

  Broward County, Florida? Wait. The jet? Sure enough, your suit’s onboard computer tells you that the Nightwatchman’s radar-invisible stealth fighter is parked in an underground hangar nearby, gassed up, thought-controlled, and ready to take you anywhere on the planet. Something is bugging you about the gaping holes in your predecessor’s security measures, but to be honest you’re too giddy to dwell on it much.

  You start thinking about the backup Nancy mentioned. Maybe it’s time to bring Melah and Dale into the loop. They’re both good journalists — they could help you put the pieces together, and with a jet you could be back in Cleveland in no time. Or maybe it’s time to stop thinking like an unemployed reporter and start thinking like a superhero. Besides, you’ve got a feeling that investigative backup isn’t what Nancy was talking about.

  ▶ If you call your friends and turn this mission into a team effort, click here for page 68.

  ▶ If you skip right past amateur hour and round up some bigger, preferably superpowered guns, click here for page 150.

  46

  The Cosmic Guardian told you to lie low with his honest-to-god dying breath — maybe you should listen, at least until you figure out just what’s going on here. You use your slightly shaky understanding of world geography to locate Cleveland on the globe, and head straight for your apartment. After about 15 minutes of trying to figure out how to remove your gauntlets so you can type (they retract into the suit’s arm plates, which is pretty cool), you’re puttering about on your laptop, which is what you’d be doing on a normal weekday afternoon even if you weren’t mostly encased in alien cybernetics.

  You turn up plenty about the Cosmic Guardian’s adventures, but very little regarding his disappearance. Even his old teammates don’t seem to know what happened to him. One quote from the Human Torpedo sums it up:

  Those space heroes were like that, you know, always coming and going. Most people don’t remember this, but the Cosmic Guardian wasn’t the first. The space police, or whatever, sent him to replace Dogstar, the Savior from Sirius. Nice guy, Dogstar, although, frankly, I never really understood what the hell he was talking about. But one day he’s just dead, and the Guardian shows up. I kind of expected another one to come after he finally split, but I guess the space cops figured that by then we had things under control.

  Then the interview mostly degenerates into a plug for Oceanopolis, the ill-fated theme park Torpedo lent his name to when he retired back in ’97. You recall seeing Dogstar in group photos of the old Liberty Patrol, but never knew he had any connection to the Cosmic Guardian.

  Before you can type “Dogstar” into Google, you hear a knock at the door, accompanied by a shrill, all-too-familiar voice. “I know you’re there,” your neighbor Mrs. Pinkett shouts from the porch. You freeze. “I saw you come home — I’m not blind, you know.”

  Wait a minute. She saw you? Flying out of the clear blue sky, decked out in full-body space armor? Your visor quickly closes, completely of its own volition, and the gauntlets that took so long to coax off your fingers snap back into place.

  “I checked with the landlord,” your neighbor says. “You’re not allowed to have robot suits in the building, just so you know.”

  No, no, no. Mrs. Pinkett is an incorrigible gossip. If she realizes you’re the Cosmic Guardian, it’ll be on the nightly news by six o’clock. She keeps knocking, and two little missiles pop out of your armored shoulders, humming as if ready to launch. The suit is responding to your panic, and gearing up for battle! You need to calm yourself before you accidentally carpet bomb the place.

  ▶ If you grab your laptop and flee out the back door, click here for page 63.

  ▶ If you stay and try to control the damage before Mrs. Pinkett shares your secret identity with the entire apartment complex (or the world), click here for page 112.

  48

  You didn’t grow up idolizing villains and thugs. And you’re not sure what kind of power you’ve stumbled upon, but you’re fairly certain it comes with at least medium-grade responsibility. You refuse the Ox’s offer to join him in his life of crime.

  So he punches you. In a flash of blinding pain, you find yourself splayed out on the floor, immediately regretting your decision. Y
ou glance over and discover that your right arm is a twisted mess of exposed bone and pooling blood. You instinctively threw your arms up to protect your face, so your elbow took most of the force of impact.

  Wait a minute. Since when do you bleed purple?

  You watch your arm dissolve right before your eyes until your wrist and shoulder are connected by a lumpy puddle of purple goo, which then solidifies into a vaguely arm-shaped mass. Something really freaky is going on here, but at least the pain is gone. Stumbling to your feet, you find that you can still move your fingers, and sort of flop around your new boneless, stretchy appendage.

  “What are you supposed to be? The Latex Avenger?” The Ox takes a step toward you, balling up his fists. “Seriously, stay down.” Before he can throw another punch, purple goo spreads from your arm, quickly covering your body below the neck. The Ox’s fist connects with your chest, but your sludgy coating absorbs most of the impact. It also covers your opponent’s fist in gunk. He tries to wipe one hand clean with the other, but only manages to get them get them stuck together.

  It looks like you’ve discovered your superpower. Given a choice you would probably have picked something a little sexier than purple goop, but it just saved your life so you’ll take what you can get.

  Concentrating, you discover that you have control over the sludge’s consistency, and you harden your coating into a protective shell. Which gives you an idea. You focus on the Ox, and the gunk on his hands solidifies.

  “What the hell?” He starts grunting, trying to pry his hands apart with his considerable strength, but they don’t budge. You jump back, and with a flick of your shoulder stretch your bendy right arm several feet across the room to gunk up his feet as well. Once you’ve willed the foot goo to solidify, the Ox is effectively immobilized.