Salvation Inc.

Issue #1 of 9

For Gil Temple, Saving the World is a Budget Item

Gil Temple’s office did not have a single window. Windows were a luxury for those who were not being targeted by every ill minded uberkind that roamed the streets of New York City. Instead he settled with wall to wall titanium shielding that was three feet thick. The building could take a few tomahawk cruise missiles before it would begin to teeter. Inside the frames of the titanium metal were tiny hypersonic sensors that vibrated at incredibly low frequencies. This was a precaution against any telekinetic or mind reading uberkind that would try to use psychokinetic energy to manipulate anyone inside. The back corner of the office, near two suede chairs, displayed a ten foot screen projector that displayed camera footage from the top of the skyline, but could also be switched to show satellite footage of the Earth.

The walls were painted a special color that was a combination of taupe and mauve. There was a certain alien war lord from the celestial door who would get violently ill if he saw that color. Gil’s clients commented the paint looked tacky like an elderly woman was trying to redecorate. All that was missing was a few statues of Elvis. Gil wished he could have a soft beige color on the walls, but safety was more important than fashionable decor.

Behind the desk, Gil worked on his ancient faded computer with Windows XP. It was slow and and the cooling fan sounded like a jet engine, but he gained the reassurance that the technology was completely unable to be infiltrated by The Network, a rogue terrorist computer program. He learned the hard way in times past when his much newer computer gained sentient life and filled up every day of his online calendar with the command, “Kill The President!”

Gil wore a black 3 piece silk suit lined with a thin coating of led and a red tie that suggested he was running for office somewhere in the world. A golden cross was pinned to his lapel; a gift he received at his first Holy Communion when he was twelve. Though he knew it was a fashion sin to wear a baseball cap with a suit that cost over $1000 dollars, he needed something that had the Salvation Inc logo on it. The words stood in bold serif letters across the front. He was the CEO of one of the largest uberkind dispersal facilities in the world.

Gil adjusted his ear piece, “The Silk Stalker; has she budged on our negotiation yet?”

“Negativo Mr. Gil. I have wined, dined and forty-nined her all weekend and she has not so much as coughed an interest for coming on.”

“What is holding her back?”

“I don’t know, maybe the fact that we can’t offer her a movie deal by Spielberg. We also aren’t in bed with the largest toy company like the-company-that-shall-not-be-named.”

Gil grimaced.

“But did you tell her about being awarded the World Safety Elite commendation three years in a row? What about the fact that we have a higher percentage of stopping world ending class 5 threats than anyone in the business?”

“I think she fell asleep when I told her. I will do you one better, I am going to take her back to the tiki bar that overlooks the beach and see how many rum and cokes I can win her over with. She might soften up if I throw in a 16 ounce steak.”

“Mind your budget, Klein, that money is for convincing the uberkind that we are the best company to work for. It’s not for bribery.”

“You’re the boss, both literally and figuratively. Between you and me, Mr. Temple, with the annual draft coming up, I think the-company-that-shall-not-be-named is also taking interest in her.”

Gil perked up, “On what authority?”

“She was on the phone when I had to take a pee break. She was speaking to someone quietly, but words like stock shares, vacation housing, and sign-on bonus were being dropped.”

Gil winced his eyes, “Okay, not a huge deal breaker. Remember, if she doesn’t care about professionalism, safety, responsibility and efficient uberkind management then we don’t want her anyway.”

“Yea, sir, but she brings in the kids and the kids bring in the money.”

“Secondary to our goal.”

“Gotcha. Well, I see her on the move. Looks like she is done singing her karaoke. I will try convincing her that she wants a safe and professional company to settle down with.”

The phone call ended and as soon as Gil hit the hang up his phone lit up again.

“Hello?” He spoke even though Caller ID told him who it was. Devon, his image analyst and data researcher was on the other line.

“Gil, it’s Devon, have you given any thought about what we talked about.” The voice on the phone was more gruff unlike the last call.

Gil winced again.

“We can’t get rid of Mother Earth, Devon. She speaks to the Earth. Need I remind you that she convinced the Earth not to implode on itself after Mind Dozer set off all those earthquakes?”

“Yea but, her ratings are an anchor on us. She is an elderly woman who talks to flowers as if they were her children. I don’t want people thinking she is the face of the company. Not even AARP wants her on the cover of their magazine.”

“Devon,” Gil cleared his throat, “I know you see everything as a number. I pay you to analyze the numbers, but there are some things bigger than having someone on your team that isn’t trending on Twitter and Instagram. I am not going to send that poor woman packing because she can’t get enough likes on her Facebook page. In fact, I think we should throw her a parade to show how thankful we are for helping us keep the Earth from falling apart.”

Devon recanted in his tone. “You’re the boss, both literally and figuratively. I just get concerned that she is not what the future wants for uberkind business.”

“Maybe I can get our apparel and image team to give her a makeover,” Gil sighed, “Would that put your mind at ease?”

“It’s a step in the right direction. We need to do something that will get the paparazzi back at our door. The news herds are thinning.”

“You let me worry about that and keep crunching the numbers. Oh by the way, I just spoke to Klein. I know you two are exact clones of each other, but can you get a new catch phrase? The whole ‘you’re the boss both literally and figuratively’ thing is getting a little old.”

“You’re the boss,” Devon stopped himself before he could continue the catch phrase. “Tell Klein I said hi and if you see Hugh, tell him I know he has been cheating on his diet. When you are an empathic clone you share the same stomach.”

The phone call ended. Gil sat back in his leather chair, pushing the wheels over the plastic stopper. He was feeling almost defeated. On his desk was a picture of a beagle with a light coat of fur. Widget was waiting for him at home and surely he was the only friend Gil could hope for that did not demand he change his business model.

Forty uberkind were in his employ and the five story Salvation Inc building was the brain center of it all. The top floor was where Gil sat alone in his office, but a few conference rooms padded out the floor. The next floor down was the eyes and ears of uberkind management. A couple million were thrown at satellites, broadcast stations, scanners, and a crew that monitored the Earth. The next floor was offices for marketing, legal, and data analysis. One hundred employees kept the gears of heroism turning. It was overly complicated to explain how the public image, the safety of the world, and the conditions of the market of uberkind management worked for the greater good, but the business infrastructure held Salvation Inc together. Salvation Inc provided a free, non-profit product that the world did not know it needed: organization. When humanity learned that 1 out of one million received the gift of godlike powers, it was only a matter of time before chaos ensued. Salvation Inc provided structure, accountability, measurements of success, and business ethics, turning what could have been a severe misuse of power into a working machine that benefited humanity. Asia, Europe, and South America had also taken on Salvation Inc, providing a close knit network of uberkind that were ready to battle those that would cause harm. There were 88 known enemies of state that had made their intent know to the world through invasions, mass murder, theft, and other hostilities. Not to forget that the Titan 19 voyage, which is the space accident that started this mess, created an open door policy for extraterrestrials. The past ten years proved that the universe was much bigger, but had a habit of making humanity feel much smaller.

Religions shifted, new evidence boiled to the surface, ideologies were thrown away in this age. The people of Earth were embracing a reality that made omnipotent emperors, miraculous science, and the collapsing of the human idea of limitation. But Gil held onto his core beliefs, which is why Salvation Inc needed to exist. Men were not gods, aliens were not our overlords, and technology could not solve every problem. A history of Catholic religion class and a deep seated belief in a higher power with less of an ego fueled this.

The first and second floors of Salvation Inc were training rooms, initiation centers, and a public tour of uberkind’s ten year history. Salvation Inc. was a household name in the world. A human could not get onto a plane and visit any country without hearing about the top uberkind management center. They were the brand of choice for a couple billion people. There was one other competition that shared the same light as Gil’s company and a few smaller ones that were struggling financially, but Gil had the world’s first super powered human center and the world owed him a debt of thanks.

Gil used both palms to push himself up. When his legs felt strength he grabbed his walking stick and pushed all his weight on it. His leg was sore, which made him thankful because that meant the trauma did not sever his leg nerves. Remembering that he needed a walking stick almost always drew his attention to the glass case hugging the corner of the room. The Lone Ranger type eye mask, the red leather vest, the green cape, the padded tights, and the swashbuckling crimson rapier starred vapidly back at him. That was a whole other life that ended two years too long. The Red Avenger was a fool. He thought he was God’s answer to the little man; the voice of the people. With only a black belt in taekwondo, a couple years of team gymnastics, and some very expensive fencing lessons, he had huge ambitions to represent the vigilante sector of super heroics. The rest of the world was budding with miraculous powers, speaking openly about how godlike they were. Ordinary men were flying and shooting lasers out of every orifice of their body. They needed a reminder of their humanity. The Red Avenger was the mortal who would represent that.

The Red Avenger also fell for his own hubris.

You lost her. The empty costume behind the glass said.

“Shut up! You lost her!”

Gil took the elevator down to the Surveillance room. It was a media buffet of monitors, tweets, and constant newsfeeds across the world. Computer analysts and former air traffic controllers spent ten hour days looking for patterns across news channels and anticipating the next catastrophic event. Their original goal was to monitor the world for safety issues, but the role of the situation room morphed into so much more as uberkind became a competitive business. There was that other company that resided in their own situation room and was monitoring the same satellite feeds. Salvation Inc was one uberkind management facility, being a big fish in a crowded pond. They were allowed jurisdiction over certain uberkind enemies of the state and exclusive rights over certain kind of catastrophes. Likewise, it was the responsibility of the monitoring team to make sure the employed of Salvation Inc stayed within their boundaries. A legal battle over an uberkind fighting the wrong battle at the wrong place was ugly and costly. Mostly Salvation Inc and the competition left each other alone, but both enterprises knew that they needed the other’s business like the next gulp of air. The tension between the competition was almost as fierce as the villains who threatened national safety.

The monitors rolled for twenty four hours each day displaying news footage of various uberkind saving the day from the many forms of destruction the world could offer. The screens danced with the heroics of each company. Salvation Inc agents were fitted in silver and white jumpers, with the emblem of the brand sprawled across the chest. A few senior members of the company could wear their own company approved uniform as part of a grandfather clause that came up before branding was necessary, but the rest had to keep up with the colors and logo. If Gil’s agents took down a sinister enemy of state like Baron Von Luther or Dr. Door, it was imperative that the cameras see the silver and white logo. There was a joke floating around the office that it would have been better for the villian to succeed in his evil plan than to save the day without properly representing the right company. God forbid some member of the public mistake a Salvation Inc. rescue for a Powerline Industries one. Besides the main competition, there was some very small companies that were getting miniscule crumbs. They were lucky to get 2% of the uberkind market. Other uberkind that weren’t affiliated with an enterprise went on the independent circuit. Though there was no health insurance, life policies, or legal protection going independent, it was picking up speed among the uberkind society.

Gil leaned over a desk chair where a monitor team member was looking. An Indian news channel was reporting that Salvation Inc’s Power Feline stopped a mudslide from burying a small village in Kolkata. In bright bold letters the Salvation Inc brand showed claiming responsibility for the heroic effort. Above Gil’s head a ticker tape marquee ran the numbers of each uberkind and how well they were being represented by the public. Sure enough, Power Feline went up 0.04 points for her save.

Other monitors showed assets of the company working their beats. King Triton, a shirtless muscular man with knotty long blonde hair and coral gold board shorts was giving a pep talk to kids on a beach about preserving the oceans. He displayed gill flaps underneath his jawbone, which allowed him to live underwater and on land.

Another monitor showed Jack America. He wore a complete old glory flag bodysuit with a big star on the back. He was on a rooftop overlooking the Minneapolis skyline, with binoculars fixed to his eyes. His American flag battle axe was standing upright in his other hand. Spying on a Russian underground group of insurgents was his main directive.

Giant Tiger and Myla Micro were on a team together traversing the streets of Seattle. The 12 foot tall lanky black man was investigating the death of a former governor of Washington. Myla Micro was on his shoulder, but she couldn’t be spotted by conventional cameras being her size was reduced to an atom. Both of them were hot on the trail of Lord Burnside, a fire starting enemy of the United States with a dramatic flair for Shakespeare.

Silver Lining was sitting in an old cathedral in Belfast, Ireland. He was kneeling over a pew and praying. He received the news that his mother died and he needed a sabbatical to mourn her.

Other monitors showed various heroes on different missions, each one with a camera fixed on them from satellites or company owned drones. This was for their own protection. There were forty uberkind in Salvation Inc’s employ. All members were getting daily stipends, a generous healthcare, and a retirement that would promise full care for their loved ones.

A monitor team member, Jeffy, spun toward his boss. Jeffy was a pudgy and bald intern who was looking for a good use for his communications degree, “Sir, the company-that-shall-...”

“I am so sick of hearing that!” Gil reprimanded. “Just call them Powerline Industries. It’s not a sin to recognize the competition.”

Gil lived with the fear that he would never truly know how his one hundred employees thought of him. As a CEO, he needed to be everything to everyone. Strong. Defiant. Brave. Edgy. Servant-like. Friendly. Tough. Thick-skinned. He often wondered if his employees were spitting on his picture when they went home. Nonetheless, it didn’t stop him one iota from being a straight-to-the-point boss. His words were always a band-aid being ripped off fresh skin. It made things easier that way. He could also accredit Catholic school for that.

Jeffy turned beet red, “Powerline has been quiet today. Unusually quiet. Mostly Salvation Inc has been in the news. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes it does,” Gil pondered, “Powerline always goes off radar before The Draft. That means they are spending their energy working deals.”

Another monitor employee drew his eyes off the screen, Hector. Large spectacles staved off his weak vision, “I keep hearing chatter from certain informants. You’re not going to like this, but the sources are reliable.”

“Tell me.” Gil perked up.

“It’s not going to brighten your day, sir.”

“Stop baiting me and tell me.”

“Word is that certain enemies of state like Crystal Serpent and Gigantus are making it publically known that they hope Salvation Inc gets exclusive rights to them.”

Gil’s face went sour.

In the sport’s world, it was a good sign when your prospects were hoping you would hire them. It was the exact opposite in uberkind business. When a villain of the people proclaimed that they were hoping Salvation Inc will be assigned to them, it was a slap in the face to the company. It meant that they believed the company was too soft and unreliable and that the villain would have a much easier time pulling off their schemes. Essentially, the law breakers were hoping to get exclusive rights to Salvation Inc because the public believed they were not as effective.

An intern cursed using the Lord’s name.

Gil thwacked the intern on the arm with his stick, “Watch your mouth. We speak kindly of that man or we don’t mention him at all.”

The intern apologized. He was not briefed on Gil’s religious loyalty and he would later cuss out his friends for neglecting to mention that.

Gil looked down on the monitors that were feeding his employees constant information. The glow of the screens were casting shadows behind the wrinkles under his eyes and at the creases of his mouth. Those were tired eyes. He was nearly reaching his fifties. How much had the uberkind business aged him? His hair was becoming more salty and peppery every day and it was not a graceful aging. Though the magazines described his features as a debonair George Clooney type, he knew that this job was taking a toll. Being in charge of half of the world’s safety was not a slouch career.

“Gentlemen, don’t worry about every news tidbit you hear,” Gil straightened his tie, “I assure you the draft will go according to plan like it always has. We have some big names coming to our accounts. I wish I could share them with you, but it can’t be on public record yet. We will have first pick this year and it will go well with us. Keep making the world safe and keeping us out of trouble. That should be your focus.”

It was once believed that every ten minutes a New Yorker could look up and see a cape flying overhead. That number was greatly exaggerated as less than ten percent of the uberkind lived in New York City. With that said, it wasn’t unusual to see Ultimate X, The Mighty American, Bullet Reign or the Dynamic Family milling about.

Outside of the Salvation Inc base was the everyday life of millions of citizens spanning six continents. Polish sausage vendors waged hunger wars on every corner, Middle Eastern drug stores sold bootleg DVD’s out of their cars, and young dreamers tried to eek out a living.

Gil racked his brain while walking. The Draft was coming. The only time of the year where the future of his company would be decided by his negotiation skills. He needed contracts to exclusive villains, which would ensure consumer trust. The whole science behind it was nerve wracking to a man who just wanted to make sure the world had a safe and orderly way to survive.

Dr. Stranger was a friend of the company, being the only link Salvation Inc had with bleeding edge technology. He was a kook, living in an underground offshoot of the NYC subway. A trip down the tile stairs from 4th Street, past two steam vents, and a pass by a magazine and cigarette stand later, Gill was looking at the cast iron door built into the wall.

The rumble of the subway was behind Gil as he pushed on the doorbell of Dr.Stranger’s cast iron door. A camera craned its neck to see him.

“Gil Temple?” The speaker box broadcasted.

“Dr.Stranger.”

“Say something only Gil would know. I am not falling for the replica terrorist again.”

“Your mom’s name is Gwendolyn.”

Pressure gears clicked. The door opened and Gil was introduced to a lab that looked like a hurricane hit it. Random car engine parts were hooked up to generators. A chemistry set was boiling a yellow liquid. A dead squirrel was hooked up to a dissection table. A bed was adjacent to this mess, but even the sheets had science journals strewn about. Gil counted three laptops open. He instantly thanked Jesus that his mother taught him cleanliness.

Then there was Dr. Stranger who couldn’t help but live up to his name. He was balding on top, but the hair on his sides was bright red. The hair on the back of his head was gray. His cheeks had wrinkles that rested under eyes that had crow’s feet, but his mouth and chin looked like they belonged to a college student.

“Excuse the mess.” he said wiping his hands on a towel. His lab coat had set stains from previous experiments.

Gil couldn’t help but stare, “That youth formula? Is it working?”

Dr. Stranger blushed, “I can’t get it to make my whole body young, but it works on parts of my face.”

Dr. Stranger was more than open to testing new experiments on himself. He was the only willing participant. There was one week where he had tiny squid tentacles growing from his arms. His body was a canvas and wild, unorganized science was the artist.

Gil sat on a bench. He moved some radio parts to the side, laying his arm on the dusty work table.

Dr. Stranger sat next to him. With a mini screwdriver he poked the forearm.

Gil’s arm seized. Tiny metal plates formed over his whole arm. He winced from the pinching until the metallic structure replaced all the skin on his arm.

“Have you tested it in the shower?” Dr. Stranger asked. His accent was thick with Germanic air.

“I usually don’t need to defend myself in the tub.”

“It needs to be calibrated correctly or you won’t be able to rely on it.”

Dr. Stranger tightened some of the metal screws resting in the sinews and muscles in Gil’s arm. Gil was relieved to get his arm back.

“How are my triplets?”

“Hugh, Klein, and Devon are functional as any clones can be. They get along with each other being that they are the same person.”

Dr. Stranger removed his glasses and polished them on a rag that was dirtier than his lenses. “Have they had any signs of existential crisis? A soulless nightmare that never seems to end? A feeling of empty worthlessness? Do they cry in the night begging for purpose?”

Gil looked at him blankly.

“Science has yet to determine if clones are an abomination to God’s order of creation. I guess time will tell.”

“You didn’t have to create three of them. One would have sufficed.”

“That’s where you are wrong. Creating one clone is easy. The CVS down the street can do that. Three clones from one human is the edge of humanity.You pay me for the best and that is what you will get.”

Gil was out in the subway when he heard the screaming. A news stand selling Snickers and magazines was to his immediate left. The owner was Indian, an honest worker trying his best to pay the bills.This time around, there was another man behind the cash register. He had his hammy hands around the throat of the Indian man.

The thug was overweight, wearing a black wool sweater that couldn’t hold back a wave of tummy fat. His back bulged with fat lumps. Despite his girth, his body looked like it was accustomed to getting into scuffs. On this particular day it was the thug’s job to beat this poor Indian fellow and demand some form of payment. The thug was some lackey for Shadow Locker. He was probably offering protection in exchange for all the money in the cash register.

The cashier was skinny, a paper thin man, whose bones seemed like they were made of egg shells. His uniform was gripped by a meaty fist.

Gil waited. Most of america worried that the uberkind would drive the police out of business. Being a crime fighting servant to the public certainly stepped on the toes of the cops. But that wasn’t the case as the problem sorted itself out quickly. The police were entitled to the unpowered mortals who threatened lives. The uberkind let them have that and the world still saw the blue arm of the law as necessary heroes. It’s only when the competition introduced uber powers did Salvation Inc and Powerline step in. That was the unwritten rules that the uberkind respected.

The thug pushed the cashier against the wall. He then trashed a cart of potato chips on the ground. The onlookers began to run away. Perhaps now was a good time to get the police.

Gil looked at his watch. A meeting in an hour. “Screw it.”

He approached the overweight thug that was punching the wall and yelling. Swear words and drool jumped on to the face of the defenseless cashier.

“Excuse me, sir.”

The thug took a moment to realize that a common citizen was trying for his attention. There was spit on his jowls.

“You want a beating to?”

Gil did not flinch. He had his cell phone out. On the six inch screen was a list of names: Moon Titan, Mother Earth, Jack America, Starmap. Each name was color coated in green, yellow, or red.

“This is the list of people I can send here immediately to remove you from this situation.” He looked over at his phone. “For example, I can get the Moon Titan here in under a minute and he would turn your arm bones into crackers.”

The thug swore at him in unbelief.

Gil scrolled down the list. “Oh here. This is a red name. This is Nova Sapphire. She is on break, but I bet she wouldn’t mind zapping over and frying you with enough solar energy to turn your underutilized brains into mashed potatoes.”

The thug backed away from the cashier. “You are full of…”

Gil cut him off, “This is my favorite. This is a black name. The black names are most likely to have a little fun with you before they decide they are finished. Manson Vanderstein would love to try his new torture interrogation out. Let me just call him quick.”

The thug spewed out a nasty curse to Gil, making a half hearted threat. He was gone.

The cashier’s eyes went wide with joy and relief. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Gil swiped away the thank you as if the gesture took nothing at all. He tipped his hat to the cashier and went for the escalator. The cashier was scooping up bags of chips and downed displays, repeating his gratitude over and over. This was the time for Gil to leave and let the man have his dignity back.

But before he left...

“Do you really have a list of uberkind that can come to your assistance?” The cashier asked.

Gil spun around and smiled, “This list is just a voting app for ranking uberkind. I was bluffing. It actually takes a lot of paperwork and schedule clearing to get a hero out on such short notice. Also, we don’t have teleportation technology. Most likely the uberkind would have to take a bus here.”

The cashier laughed.

Gil laughed.

They exchanged goodbyes.

Gil’s heart was beating. He can’t believe that worked.