“This is all very interesting, Mister Castle,” said the four-star general. He was a West Point man, Army for twenty-seven years. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs for the past year. But he still didn’t have a damn clue what the man before him was showing to him after
a quick ten minute virtual presentation in the privacy of Castle’s office. “But I fail to see how your solutions stack up to what the Seven provide.”

“Provide-ED,” said Nicholas, with emphasis on the past tense ending. “We’ve seen what happened to that group. They were the best we had, when they were created. I’m showing you something better.”

“Not yet you haven’t.”

“I’m sure we could discuss the pros and cons of the Seven, General. And I can confidently predict that you would support them because of their military backgrounds and government training, but I would counter with a much more solid argument. You see,
there’s nothing like competition to produce the best things. Food, technology, toys…it all goes together. After all, the competition for military contracts is very fierce, although no pilot wants to think of his plane as being built by the lowest bidder, much less the infantryman and his rifle, or the gunner and his tank.”

The general shifted in his leather chair. “Go on.”

“So I offer you something that those in the military and the government love to hear, General. What I have to offer you will not cost you more than the Seven. It will not cost you more than the B-2 bomber program or a new Nimitz-class aircraft carrier. It will cost
you in legitimate building contracts and subsidized federal insurance as outlined in my prospectus.” Castle waved a hand to the leather-covered folder at the General’s left elbow. The only ornamentation was an embossed kite shield, crenellated at the top, enclosing a capital letter C. “So, General, what do you have to lose by listening and looking at just a
few more things?”

Artifice Comics Presents…
CHESSMEN: FOUNDATIONS #1:
Sales Pitch
By Aaron Baugh

The general smiled politely, but it was obvious to anyone that he wasn’t convinced. Castle’s smile, however, was confident as he tapped a keyboard command and a massive LCD display behind the general illuminated.

“Keep your eyes and ears open, general, and look at that screen.” Castle pointed, and the general swiveled his chair to the view that dominated his field of vision.

There were a serious of snapshots, some black and white, most in color, showing a young woman with short, spiky black hair in various outfits in a multitude of places. In one shot, she was on stage at that appeared to be a karaoke bar. In another, she was kicking in the door of a burning building. A third showed her standing astride an unconscious man
with a paper bag of spilled money laying beside his outstretched hand. The others either showed her in other normal situations or post-action.

“Caroline Danvers. An amazing girl, this one. Twenty, claims no parents. Emancipated from the state of Illinois at age eighteen. Strength, speed, quickness, all above Olympic caliber. A little rough, but good-hearted. She’s the first one.”

“Mister Castle, if you’re submitting a replacement roster for the Seven, this hardly seems like a great place to start,” said the general.

“General, just a little of your time is all I’m asking. It gets better.” Castle paused. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Each of these pictures were taken in Chicago a month ago. Each of them were taken within thirteen minutes of each other.”

“Really?” said the general, halfway between piqued curiosity and outright disbelief.

“Oh yes. Danvers can create eight independent copies of herself, out of thin air.”

“Interesting.”

The screen blanked, then was filled with video of a huge defensive tackle for the Washington Redskins from various games. The general gave a nearly imperceptible flinch when he hit a running back specially hard or slammed on top of a quarterback.

Jeffrey Green was NFC Defensive Rookie of the Year in 2000. Would’ve had MVP in ‘01, but a car wreck would and his career before it began. A hospital error resulted in him being given the wrong blood type while paramedics tried to save his life.” The picture
changed to a news photo of the massive man being wheeled into an ambulance. “The resulting infection and countermeasures led to his bone marrow being nearly irrevocably damaged. Green’s Leukemia became a new disease.” The picture changed to a significantly
reduced Green in a wheelchair, surrounded by his former teammates at a charity event in his benefit.

“That’s where I came in, or rather, Castle Pharmaceuticals. We’d been searching for a candidate for our new bone marrow transfer process, utilizing gene therapy in the new marrow to specifically tailor it for the recipient. Near-matching with family members or strangers would not be required. Anyway,” said Nicholas, almost losing his way after the brief company pitch, “Green was the lucky one who passed our initial screening. The lure of curing a brand new disease was simply too overwhelming to resist.”

The general’s mouth quirked in a smile.

Again, the screen changed to show a thinner but healthier-looking Green standing without assistance, though the wheelchair was still a few paces behind, and a therapist only an arm’s length away. “The transplant was a success. This was Green after forty-eight hours.”

He clicked, and another picture slid into view showing Green looking a tad bigger, sweating profusely on a treadmill. “After seventy-two hours.”

Click. Green on a Nautilis machine. “Ninety-six.”

Click. Green on a bench press, with a massive weight on the bar, so massive that the bar was bending slightly. The general leaned forward to read the stenciling on the weights. “Is that . . .“

“Four hundred kilograms,” Castle said dryly. “Six days after his surgery. One hundred fifty-three hours and nineteen minutes after having a bone marrow transplant to rebuild his ruined blood supply.”

“My God.”

“No, general. My friend. Green’s leukemia has been cured, and Green himself has shown the ability to deadlift over eight tons. We’re still not sure exactly how strong he’s become, but we think it’s still increasing, though not nearly as much as before.”

“This process, can it be duplicated?”

“No. The gene therapy has been successful over two dozen times since then, and at all stages of leukemia, but never with the same results. We still think the recombinant marrow somehow altered not only his blood, but bone and muscle composition. We’re still working on it.”

“Toughness? Most of these strong types can take small-arms fire at close range.”

“Yes, and no. Green bruises just like the rest of us. But, since bruising is caused by blood leakage right below the surface and Green has super-blood, for lack of a better term, it coagulates almost instantly and possesses the strength of the iron it’s made from. So
he cuts, and bleeds, but his blood is tougher than his skin.”

“That’s. . .disturbing.”

Castle smiled.

“Something to eat or drink, General?” asked Nicholas.

“No, no thanks. I’d rather continue.”

Nicholas smiled, the bait already having been swallowed. A short keyboard sequence blanked the screen, which was almost immediately refilled with a late-eighties sitcom featuring a blond-haired little boy. The general suppressed a groan as the scene ended to canned laughter. “My wife loved this show,” he said.

“So did millions of Americans. “ ‘Life with Mikey’ was a coast-to-coast hit, stayed that way for its first six years, starting in 1989. Its star, Michael Dean Lawrence, was eight when the show started, but after he turned fourteen, the cutesy show began to lose viewers, and was axed after its seventh season, leaving Michael yet another child star trying to make
it in a business where they can’t see past his early work. And it was that way until 2002, when he was hired by MGM.”

“Finally a job in showbiz?” inquired the general.

“Not really. He was key grip on movie sets.”

“What’s a key grip?”

“I have no idea.”

The two men were silent a moment, and Nicholas then continued. “A terrible on-set accident resulted in poor Michael being crushed under a lighting rig. The story would have ended up on E! had it not been for Michael Ross Lawrence, the father. Currently among the top five neurosurgeons in the world and a personal friend of mine, he approached me with a project that I simply could not ignore.” The images of both the younger and elder Lawrences cleared from the screen and an outline of a human body appeared, containing a red-coded map of the major nerve bundles in the body. Over this was a series of flashing green squares detailing areas of the spine, four in all, and the junction of spine and skull. “For his son, who was
rendered a quadriplegic, he wanted to attempt radical neural surgery, his speciality, along with strong, lightweight skeletal reinforcement and bionicenhancement, mine. So we combined to give his son a new life.” The video changed to a smiling, walking Michael Lawrence the younger.

“Something tells me that wasn’t all you gave him,” said the general, turning his head to direct his voice better. “We’ve heard about Honduras.”

Castle smiled. “Of course, our earlier successes emboldened us, and with Dr. Lawrence’s help, we were able to increase the speed of Michael’s muscle contraction, making him very quick. I was able to strengthen his skeleton and with aggressive therapy his muscles responded. Without the limiting influence of his skeleton, Michael became very strong and resilient. As he got used to his enhancements, he wanted more.” The wall screen changed to a multi-shot
collage of Michael, some on the treadmill, a few of him on an operating table. “I cannot, of course, disclose all of the modifications we’ve made, but he only has one lung left, the other being replaced with filters and storage cells allowing him to function in low or no oxygen areas as well as being able to survive a wide variety of inhaled pollutants and poisons. We reinforced his ribcage to protect his heart, and have given him a variety of ocular implants and filters, plus the brain implants to allow him to use all of these wonderful toys.”

“Estimated cost?”

“Unknown. Over the past three years we’ve used cutting edge technology and labor that nobody’s been charged for. If I had to estimate, I’d say he’s well past the eight hundred million mark.”

“Terrible.”

“Not for us. Lawrence is on the team.”

“Who’s next?” asked the general as the screen before him blanked once again.

“Adam Noah Ezekiel Lazarus,” said Nicholas as a scruffy-looking man in a black duster popped up on screen.

“How biblical of him,” muttered the general.

“You can say that again. Notice the collar right above the six-pointed star he wears around his neck.”

“Religious zealot?”

“After a fashion. Although he doesn’t look like much, Adam here is the single greatest practitioner of self-belief and positive chi reinforcement that we’ve found.”

“Positive what reinforcement?” said the general as he spun his chair to face Castle fully. “Self-belief?
What kind of bullshit are you talking here?”

Castle shrugged. “We live in extraordinary times, General. Men and women fly. If it’s by using their basal ganglia to levitate themselves or if they can use technology to manipulate local gravity, it doesn’t change the end result that the person is flying. We don’t know how he does it, exactly, but if he believes in its possibility, he can usually do it or come pretty close.”

The general stared. “Bend bars?”

“Up to two inches thick. Solid steel.”

“Weight?”

“Thousand pound deadlift observed.”

“Invulnerability?”

“Bruises from .22 caliber fire, mild sunburn from contact with metal heated to five hundred degrees.”

“Flight?”

“Not yet.”

The general slouched back. “The religious iconography?”

“Adam holds several doctorates of theology from a variety of sources, from the respected schools to the internet specials for 9.99. Self-taught in dozens more. Our staff believes that it is the strength of his beliefs that give him his abilities.”

“So if someone can disprove God he is just a mere mortal?”

Castle shrugged. “Sure. But good luck. He’s got the most complete knowledge of religious arguments both for and against that I’ve seen. Still, he’s cool with what anyone else believes, as well. And he’s writing a new holy book.”

“Rewriting the Bible, I take it?”

“No, all new. Encompassing any and everything you and I and the staff at Harvard could come up with in a week. Massive book. I’ve seen it.”

“How close is he?”

“We’ll never really know. He got through his first chapter on the creation of all things, but he’s been reworking it and correcting errors for the past twelve years.”

“How long is the book?”

“I have no idea. Chapter one is over nine thousand pages long. Hand-written. Double-sided.” Castle reached for the remote and held up his left hand, thumb and first finger a small space apart. “Itty-bitty writing.”

The general had no response as he spun his chair back around.

The screen changed to full video of a stunning brunette walking along a white line painted on the floor, then twirling and ducking in time to no rhythm that the general could discern and made even more mysterious by the complete lack of sound in the video. The camera panned back, widening the shot to reveal a dozen men on each side, each armed with a semi-automatic pistol, each firing at random times. Sparks could be seen on the floor, the ceiling, the reinforced glass booth that protected each shooter, and none of the rounds so much as scratched the woman.

“I’ve seen her somewhere before,” said the general, chin resting on his right fore knuckle.

“Of course you have. Downstairs when you arrived. Veronica is my wife.”

“You’re a lucky man,” said the general.

“Don’t I know it,” replied Nicholas wistfully. “But, to the matter at hand. Veronica is demonstrating her pre-existing knowledge of the bullet’s trajectory. She’s not really dodging all of the bullets, but she’s dodging the ones that have the greatest chance of hitting her while staying out of the way of the others. Her precognitive abilities are but one of her talents.”

The scene of her dodging moved to the upper left corner of the screen to make room for more video clips that then moved to an empty section of the display. Veronica consistently guessing the correct symbol/shape/word on flashcards, calming wild animals with a glance, and then summoning that same animal to her side.

“This is all very nice, Mister Castle, and I am entertained, but this…well, to be blunt, I can’t put
much stock in it. Video and pictures are nice, but it really comes down to belief and trust. A man walks up to me and says he can throw a Chevy around, I don’t believe him. When I see him throw a Chevy around, that’s what gets me convinced.”

“Fair enough,” said Castle. “I understand completely. What with Hollywood tricks and such, any and all of the images I showed you could be fabricated. So come along with me, if you please.”

Nicholas gestured towards the door as the lights came up in the room. “Follow me and I’ll give you something you can see up close and personal.”

“I promised you six people, General, and we’ve only seen five so far. I’ve showed you my self-replicator. My strongman. My fighter, my believer, and my mentalist. The last one is me.”

The general raised an eyebrow. “And what, Mister Castle, can you do?”

As they had talked, they cleared several security checkpoints, the last of which included a massive yard-thick door and a combination of identity tests. All of which led them to a very stark room with a twenty-foot ceiling and what could only be described as a twelve foot tall by eight feet wide sarcophagus, featureless and made of thick, dull gray metal.

“What can I do, General? I drive this.” Castle laid his hand on the flat surface of the sarcophagus and a network of circuitry lit on the face of it, extending out to the sides. An audible clack sounded and the front of the massive slab began to move into the floor as Nicholas removed his hand.

The slab revealed a massive humanoid suit which opened before both men’s very eyes. The interior was also featureless, save for what was plainly thick padding lining the interior. Its interior void was obviously meant to accommodate a human form, legs in legs, arms in arms, and head protected by the thickness of the upper chest and lower head of the suit itself. The
exterior of the suit was made of the same dull metal as the slab-case-sarcophagus, the head a featureless egg except for a simple, basic crown motif. The arms ended in massive hands, the wrists surmounted by integrated barrels and openings therein. All features combined into a massive representation of an armored knight standing a very literal ten feet tall.

The general let out a low whistle. “Nice.”

“Thanks. I’ve worked on him my whole life.”

“Aren’t most creations referred to as ’she’ or a ‘her’?”

“I’m not a sailor or a pilot, General. I become King.”

“King?”

“Yes, general. We’ve got a Pawn, Rook, Knight, Bishop, and Queen. I complete the set. The
Chessmen.”

* * *

“See you at the Senate hearing, then?” said Nicholas as he pumped the general’s hand just before his captain’s-bars wearing adjutant opened the door to the late-model, not in any way government issue deep blue sedan with a blue four-star license plate.

“Count on it,” said the general as he sat down. “Let’s go, Newman,” he said to the captain, who
hurried around to the driver’s side and then drove away.

“Like candy from a baby,” the industrialist said to himself before turning to walk back into the building.