Martin Greenberg - If I Were an Evil Overlord

So I had the means to deliver my message of retribution to the world. Now all that was needed was a way to ensure it would be heard… and understood. But I’d already settled on a solution to that minor intellectual challenge an hour before I convened with my lieutenants.

A decade ago, a series of experiments I was conducting with wormhole technology resulted in the weakening of the vibratory barriers that separate this world from its counterpart in a neighboring dimension: a parallel Earth. It exists temporally out of sync with mine, just seconds apart-a hairs-breadth in distance on a cosmic scale. As the years passed and I was able to stabilize the wormhole to permit travel through the barriers, I learned there were other Earths, in other dimensions-an almost infinite number of them, in fact. And on none of the parallel worlds to which I made excursions did I find a single superpowered man or woman. To say I was shocked would be accurate; to say I was delighted by this revelation would be an understatement. That’s not to say there are no dimensions brimming over with costumed lunatics; I’m almost certain there must be, somewhere. It’s just that I saw no evidence of spandex-wearing simpletons on the Earths I visited.

On one such alternate-not the one inhabited by the tentacled monstrosities that devoured my synthadroid stand-in, thankfully-I learned of a powerful explosive invented by my counterpart, an acclaimed scientist praised for his humanitarian work and idolized by the world at large.

I killed him, naturally. Put a large caliber bullet through that much-loved brain of his, and stabbed him in both eyes.

As I may have mentioned before, feelings of inadequacy tend to bother me a great deal.

My late dimensional brother christened his explosive “hellfire” because of the intense heat and flames produced when the mixture was detonated-in poetic terms, it provided a brief glimpse into what “hell on Earth” might be like on a small scale. Or so he believed. As it turned out, he’d never actually put his wondrous discovery to use, although he had submitted a patent for “ Plum ’s Controlled” something (it looked like “Detonation”-his handwriting was atrocious) “Compound.” According to his notes, he wasn’t certain of what might happen if the mixture were set off or even whether the explosion could really be controlled, but had no intention of finding out. Like Alfred Nobel, who was condemned for his invention, dynamite (and who then used the vast fortune he amassed from sales of the explosive to establish the prizes he named after himself, so the world might think better of him-the fool), Other-Plum was concerned more with his legacy than with demonstrating to his scientific peers that his was the greatest intellect.

And you wonder why I killed him.

Unlike my altiverse twin, I wasn’t the sort who trifled in making busywork for myself that no one would ever see. And if he was too timid to make use of Plum ’s Explosive Compound, I wasn’t. Based on his notes-some words of which I had to guess at, that bad handwriting of his again-and my computer simulations, it appeared that a two-pound charge of this “hellfire” was sufficient for the task I’d set.

The charge was shaped and fitted into the chest of the Plum synthadroid. All that remained was for me to make my dramatic reappearance.

I chose a bench at the southeast corner of Cor-man Park as the location from which to stage my comeback, situated as it was at a large intersection close to the financial district. The spot was also directly across the street from the criminal courts building, home to the multitude of prosecutors and judges I had come to know-and despise-so well over the decades.

An unmarked white van, driven by one of my underlings, delivered the android to the target. Then I slipped on the Psychelmet ™, slipped into the robot’s mind, and stepped out to greet my adoring public.

The panic that ensued was glorious and, unfortunately, as short-lived as it had ever been. Because within two minutes of my appearance, the Devil chose to confront me, as he had so many times in the past.

DeviHawk, I mean, not Lucifer… although an appearance by the Prince of Lies would have been a welcomed change after enduring so many encounters with the heroically-garbed pissant who play-acted at being him.

I never understood the Hawk-his motives, that is. Why a grown man would choose to dress in gaudy red spandex and black leather, glue a tiny pair of horns to his temples, and parade around in public beating up people could probably be better explained by a mental health care professional. I’d always been too preoccupied with killing him to give it any real consideration.

He swooped down from the noonday sky on red glider wings that were attached to his gauntlets, and landed a few feet away. Keeping his distance, naturally.

“Hey, Prof,” he said casually, knowing full well how much I hated being called that. “Finally decided it was time to crawl out from under your rock?”

I eyed him closely. “You don’t seem surprised by my return, Hawk.”

He shrugged. “Nah. I figured you were still out there, somewhere, waiting for the right moment before you dragged your sorry ass out of whatever hidey-hole you’d slithered into.” I could tell he was lying, though-I always could. He’d literally jumped for joy when he thought I’d fallen into that reactor core. Seeing me again (even if it wasn’t the real me) was troubling him deeply; it was obvious by the way he kept nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

I directed the android’s servomotors to twist the corners of its mouth into an approximation of a smile. “Yes, well, now that I’ve ‘slithered’ back out, I have just one question for you.”

He tensed, no doubt expecting me to attack. “And what’s that?”

“Are you familiar with the Book of Revelations?” I asked.

DevilHawk started, then shook his head in disbelief. “Huh. Never figured you as the type to get religion, Prof.” He flashed that insufferably condescending grin of his. “You gonna start quoting Scripture now?”

“Just a verse or two,” I replied. I cleared my mechanical throat. “ ‘And when he opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse; and his name that sat on him was Death. And Hell followed with him. ’ ”

As planned, that was the moment when my-or, rather, the synthadroid’s-chest began beeping. Counting down.

The Hawk’s eyes widened. His jaw slackened. It was such a delicious moment when he finally realized that he’d been conversing with a machine. That he’d been denied another opportunity to pound my head down around my ankles. And that my stand-in was about to explode.

I immediately pulled out of the computer brain and returned to my body. I’d had the last word; now I could observe what came next from the safety of my lair. Overnight, Smythe had dispatched a squad of technicians to install hidden cameras throughout the area, so I could enjoy the festivities. All I had to do now was sit back and watch.

The Hawk leapt forward, grabbed hold of the android’s shirt, and tore it open. No doubt he expected to find a timer under there, one that would give him some idea of how much time remained before the blast. Time enough, I suppose, for him to find a way to defuse the bomb.

There was no timer, however; I’d stopped using those years ago. Perhaps if DevilHawk had paid for a subscription to Scientific American instead of Maxim, he would have been able to keep up with the recent changes in mad scientist technology, instead of focusing all his attention on the cup size of the latest cosmetically-sculpted supermodel. I, on the other hand, learned of and quickly invested in some of the more popular trends in terrorist equipment, such as biological weapons, laser-guided missiles… and voice-activated switches. In this case, quoting from Revelations was the trigger; the bomb was set to detonate five seconds later. Long enough for me to savor the horrified look in the costumed hero’s eyes as he saw the end coming.