Fiction: Sidekick Carl, part 3!

I decided to stick with just three posts this week, and I decided I wanted one of them to be another Sidekick Carl installment. The latest chapter ended up a little short, without a lot of action, but it has been another step defining what I want to do with this. So here it is, warts and all, plus links for parts 1 and 2.

Dusk was approaching as the truck pulled up to the gate. The watchman barely glanced at the vehicle, let alone the occupants in the cab. “You’re late,” he said.

A neutral, almost androgynous, voice answered, “There was traffic.”

“Then you must have come a long way,” the guard said. An extended arm held out a billfold with an entry badge. The guard took a moment to inspect it. He paused a moment longer, then raised the gate and waved them through. The truck was halfway through when he called out, “Wait!” As he emerged from the guardhouse, there was a hiss from the cab. He seemed to freeze, looking vaguely surprised. Then he dropped to the pavement.

A figure leaned out the driver’s side window. A gas mask covered the face. “Well,” a second speaker said, “we didn’t kill him.”

“There ‘s fewer questions without survivors,” the driver said. “At least we can get what we need before he wakes up.” As he spoke, he looked over his shoulder at a sign with the letter A. “Wait a minute… what was the site?”

There was a rustle of paper. “C. Why?”

“We’re at the wrong site,” the driver said. “I told you to check!”

“You were driving,” the other speaker said defensively. “It’s just down the road, we could make it.”

“Not before someone sounds the alarm.”

“It won’t matter. Anything they have, we can deal with. Anyway, it’s too late to abort.”

“Fine, but don’t complain to me about body counts.” With that, the truck backed straight through the gate, and they drove away.

 

***

The audience for the panel nearly filled the room, though the audience tended heavily toward preteen girls. The panel consisted of a woman identified as the 9-Foot-Woman, who in fact looked to be not much more or less than 8. The others were a normally proportioned woman with blue skin, a robot whose form looked vaguely feminine, and a trio who were clearly identical twins. “I’d just like to say,” the tall woman said, “that I’ve tried to live an interesting life without having to fight.” Her face suddenly flushed as the door opened. “You, ah, don’t have to defeat a supervillain to be a hero.” There was a lackluster applause from the audience. She promptly stood up and made her way to the back.

Carl was waiting for her by a prepared table. The stacks of books were clearly well-aged; all of them had a cover picture of her driving or riding some improbable vehicle. The name printed on the books was Dana Schachter “Sorry I had to walk out on your panel,” she said as she took a position behind the table. “I really needed to leave sooner, but, well, it was interesting.” She signed a book for one of the few girls who stopped by her table. “By the way, you can sit down if you want. It’s easier for me to stand up.”

Carl eased himself into the oversized chair. “I heard you before, at the Atlanta Con,” he said. “It was while the Agency was letting people think I was… you know.”

Another girl stopped, dressed in the clothes of a school girl but already well over five feet tall. Dana got in a few kind words while she chattered. “Hey,” the girl said, “you’re Sidekick Carl. Cool.” She then skipped away.

Carl and Dana talked until it was time to go to his next panel, then continued to talk as they walked along. “I’m really 8 foot 3,” she said. “The 9-foot part was hype. It wasn’t even on purpose. There was one time they listed my height as 99 inches, and an announcer read it as 9 foot 9.”

“I’m 6 foot 1 myself,” Carl said. “Constructor was only five-ten. I never felt tall, because we were usually fighting things a lot bigger.” He paused as a costumed figure passed. His head was enclosed by a clear plastic dome, itself supported by a near-cylindrical chest piece that looked like an oversized collar. He looked over his shoulder, then kept walking.

“Dr. Hydro,” Dana said. “It’s hard, isn’t it? Being around guys dressed up like people that tried to kill you, like they’re fans of them instead of you…”

Carl shrugged and kept walking. “It wasn’t even a good costume,” he said. “Just… remembering.” He flexed a gloved hand.

“I suppose that’s why they gave me the toon treatment,” Dana said. “My whole career was like that, really. I was supposed to be the superhuman who didn’t beat up people… mutants… robots… whatever. At least I got paid to do stuff outside. And I got stuff that was my size.”

“They say you were a good example for big people,” Carl said. “There was one, Goliath. Constructor and I fought him, when he was working for the Black Raven. I met him at a con, a few years ago. He said you were the reason he went straight.”

Dana nodded. “I knew him. He didn’t have much choice, his back went bad. It happens to a lot of us… all, really.” As she spoke, they reached Carl’s next panel. The sign read: RESCUE RELATIONSHIPS.

“I’m the moderator,” Carl said. “I think they asked me because it’s mostly people I know, from the old days.”

“Well, it sounds interesting,” Dana said. She followed Carl inside.

As the door closed, a young man in a construction worker outfit turned to another in a chintzy robot costume. “Dude,” he said, “I think Sidekick Carl just scored with the giant biker chick!”