The Weapon - Lex - part 2
By Diana the Valkyrie
Pro bono publica
Update: 17/10/2003 to valkyrie05


I felt an arm around my shoulders, and someone was saying "Drink this." It was
water, but it was the sweetest tasting water I'd ever had, maybe because it
was washing way the foul, bitter taste in my mouth. Then she gave me a tissue,
out of my own box, and told me to wipe myself down. Gradually, I got my
composure back enough to risk a quick look at her again. She'd changed back
into civilian clothes.

"Sorry about that, Mr Mickleshaw, but really, you weren't taking me seriously,
and I thought it would help if you knew that I really am who I say I am." "No,
no. It's me who should apologise." I wondered if I was grovelling low enough.
Probably not. When in doubt, grovel deeper. "Look, I'm really really sorry
that I wasn't treating you properly, it's just that ... " "Yes, I know.
Ninety-nine people out of a hundred who claim to be me, aren't me. I guess you
get this happening all the time." No, not all the time. I looked up at her.
"I'd like to be perfectly honest ..." I said. "Well, you're the first human
who ever wanted that," she replied. "What?" I asked. "Never mind," she said,
"go on."

"I don't think I can take this case, it's too big for me," I explained. Well,
you know, we're just a little country practice; conveyancing and divorce are
our bread and butter. Five billion dollar lawsuits aren't exactly my
specialty.

She was still on my side of the desk, following the regrettable vomiting
incident; she sat right down on the floor in front of me, and looked down; her
hair made a curtain round her face, and I couldn't see what she was doing.
Then she looked up. "Duncan says that you're a good firm, that's why I came
here. The size of the lawsuit isn't an issue, the issue is the complexity of
it. And it really isn't complex. Please say you'll take it on, I really need
your help here."

Her eyes were big and round, and maybe I saw a trace of moisture at the
corners. They were blue, a sort of light bright royal blue, the colour of
forget-me-nots and August skies. The colour of the royal blue ink in my
ink-bottle, I own and use a fountain-pen, ceremonial occasions only, of
course. I'm meandering. "Please," she repeated. I started to waver, maybe I
could do this ...

"I can't pay you," she said.

I closed my eyes in pain.

"I don't have any money," she explained.

I opened my eyes and sighed. "What about all the money from 'Live Long and
Prosper'" I asked. "None of that was my money," she said, "it was all a fund,
whatever that is. Please don't ask me to explain, I don't understand it
myself. But I don't have any money, none at all." "None at all?" She shrugged.
"I'm The Weapon, not Bruce Wayne" It was the sort of shrug you wanted to see a
slow motion replay of. And I remembered back when that fund had been
announced, they'd made a big deal out of the fact that she wouldn't be getting
anything out of it, it was a major selling point. "So how do you live?"

She counted it off on her fingers, it looked like this was a question she got
all the time, and this was her canned answer. "One, I don't eat, I don't need
to buy food. Two, I don't wear clothes ... " "What about ..." I pointed to her
jacket-and-skirt combination. "They aren't clothes, it's part of the illusion,
it's just an emulation. Three, I don't need anywhere to live, four I don't
need to sleep, and five, I don't wear makeup, jewelery or a mobile."

I scratched my head. "Everyone needs to eat." "I don't. I'm not a human like
you, I'm one of the People, we use mass-energy conversion via ..." "I'm not a
physicist," I interrupted her. "Well, it doesn't matter, you don't need a
physics lesson. I don't have any money - no income and nothing in the bank."
"So what do you do if you need, oh I don't know, to pay a parking meter?" "I
don't travel by car, I fly." "Well, OK, how do you pay for airline tickets."
She gave me an look that said "idiot", and I realised that maybe I ought to
use my brain a bit more than I was using my mouth. "Oh," I said. "Well," I
said. "OK, then give me one good reason why I should help you with this?" "I
don't have a good reason. Thank you for listening to me, I'll be going now."
She stood up. "No, wait," I said. "Wait."

I thought, very rapidly, about all the things I've read that she does. I
thought about how she got the world out of what seemed to be a permanent
economic depression. I thought about how no-one ever pays her for getting them
out of a burning building, or for stopping an airplane from crashing, and I
thought about what a complete and utter arsehole I was, for asking her to pay
me for helping her.

"I'll do it. Pro bono publica," I said, "that means ... "

I didn't get any further than that, I was hit by the most comprehensive hug of
my entire life. It wasn't just her arms round me; her legs, her hair and even
those huge wings were wrapped around me, I was in a cave of white feathers
having the air squeezed out of me. But gently.

"Mrs McCrea?" "Mmm?" "Could you put me down, please?"

She lowered me down to the ground, and I staggered back into my chair. "Look,
let me read through this great bundle of stuff you have here, and then we can
talk. But you're saying that you don't really have a defence, you did cause
the earthquake?" She nodded. "How do I get in touch with you," I asked. She
wrote something down. "Phone this number" "But you don't have money, and you
just said you don't have a mobile phone?" I asked. "I don't have a mobile."
"Then how do you ..." "You're still not a physicist, and you still don't want
a physics lesson. Just assume that when I say I can do something, then I can,
OK?" she looked at me, enquiringly. I nodded.

I spent the next week reading through the mass of paper she'd been sent, and
consulting databases of American law. But she was right, ultimately, it was
very simple. If she caused the earthquake, she was liable for the damage it
did. And this was a class action suit; all the people with property damaged by
her earthquake had joined together on this. Sure, we could quibble about the
value of the damage done; maybe get it down from $4.83 billion.

And then a thought struck me. You can't get blood from a stone. If she really
didn't have any money, or any valuable assets, then it really didn't matter
whether she was sued or not; the plaintiff wouldn't get a penny anyway. And
surely they must have known this - the finances of "Live Long and Prosper" are
a matter of public record. I checked up, and she was right, none of that money
was hers. She was also associated with a company, "Pretty Flamingo", but she
didn't seem to get any income from them, she wasn't a director or shareholder.
As far as I could make out, she was what is known as destitute. Not a bean to
her name. She didn't even have an address. I imagined she lived a nomadic
life, flying from emergency to emergency, stopping only to get kittens out of
trees. So why on earth were they suing?

I wondered how it could happen that she was without assets. She could have
anything she wanted, really, couldn't she? The "Live Long and Prosper" papers
gave a capitalisation of twenty trillion dollars, and since the economic boom
had increased values, it was worth more like a hundred now. How come she
didn't get any of that? And I wondered why she was concerned about the
lawsuit, all she needed to do was not defend it, accept the $4.83 billion
judgement, and then not pay, maybe go bankrupt. She had nothing to lose.
Literally.

So I made a list of questions on my mobile, stuff I needed to clear up when we
had our next client consultation. And then, about a week later, I dialled the
number she'd given me.

She answered the phone before it even rqang once. "Hello, Mr Mickleshaw, how's
it going?" I wondered how she knew it was me. Probably Caller ID. "It's going
OK, I think I understand the case. It's time we had a consultation on this,
though. I have a bunch of questions I need to ask you, and there's some
decisions you need to make." "Great! I'll come round to your house this
evening, we can have dinner together."

Wow. I wasn't ready for that! But really, there's nothing unethical about
having dinner with a client, although it's usually a lunch. I tried to
remember the last time I'd taken a pretty girl out for a meal. I couldn't
remember that far back. "I'll book a table at a local restaurant," I said.
"No, no," she said, "that isn't what I meant." Oh. I knew this was too good to
be true. "Don't book anything. I'll cook," she said.

"You'll cook? But, but, you don't have anywhere you live, you told me."

"That's right. That's why it'll be in your kitchen." "But I don't have ..."

"I'll be there at six, dinner at eight." And I was listening to the purring
noise that a telephone makes when there's no-one at the other end.

I stared stupidly at the phone. This was going a bit fast for me. Rewind.
Replay. Grasp the essentials. The Guardian of Humanity was going to cook
dinner. For me and her. Tonight. I thought, ingredients. Then I thought, but I
don't know what she's making. I guess she'll bring them with her? But where
will she get them, she doesn't have money? And then I shrugged, because I
remembered what she'd said. "Just assume that when I say I can do something,
then I can."