That’s not too surprising at this point. When you’re a writer, sometimes the stories take unexpected turns. Which is what happened to me this time. You see, I finished the Prosperina myth, and figured I was going back into normal production. Prosperina was long for a story, so I had a certain amount of ‘flex’ before I had to get into the regular schedule, but I was pretty sure I’d write a Justice Wing story, then write or post something for Storytelling, then do a myth for the following week.

For whatever reason, I didn’t want to do the next part of Vilify 5 next. I wanted to write something self contained. I thought about writing the very old school story of the time Lady Velvet used Paragon as a weapon against Nightstick and Cudgel, but that story wasn’t quite ready.

And then I thought “hey — why don’t I tell an origin story! That’s nicely comic bookish!” And for whatever reason, the Lieutenant was the character that sprung to mind. I even came up with a good framing device for it — a book Barbara Babcock (Lois Lane to Paragon’s Superman) would write about what Champions would call the Dependent Non Player Characters in a superhero’s life.

In other words, a book about Lois, Jimmy Olson, Perry White, Alfred Pennyworth, Aunt May, Mary Jane Watson, Gwen Stacy, Steve Trevor, and all the rest of the happy people who were turned into monkeys or killed and stuffed into refrigerators. That would do it!

Yeah.

Over twelve thousand words later, here we are. I thought about breaking it up into parts, but I don’t think this story would support it. So here’s a whole chapter of Barbara’s book for you. And this is why I didn’t get anything else done since then.

One thing I like is neither Barbara nor her interviewee sound like Todd Chapman, from “Interviewing Leather.” At least, within the bounds of me actually writing everyone involved.

The picture isn’t fan art, per se. That’s actually mine. Sort of. See, I started with a posted City of Heroes character based on the Lieutenant, and then I did the photoshop shuffle. The result was meant to look like a comic book panel from 1938 or so, and damn if it didn’t come out right (right down to suspect registration errors and slightly heavy blacks on the lines).

I hope you like “Legacies of the Past.”

(Excerpted from Supporting Cast, by Barbara Babcock-Ellerbee, published by Crown City Chronicle Publishers, Crown City, Illinois., 2004. Used by permission.)

Legacies of the Past

It surprises some people just how friendly the Supporting Casts can get with each other.

A lot of them hate that tag, of course. There are days I’m one of them. I know I’m ‘Paragon’s Girlfriend,’ even two marriages later, but there are days it can drive me insane. I don’t define my life by the Diamond Hard Man, as hard as it is for some Parafans to believe it. These days, I live in Los Bendiciones where we never get snow and though I’ve seen the Centurion a few times, I go out of my way not to talk to her.

But deep down, I know the truth. Teddy Jonson, Ronald Porter, Cindy Calloway — all of us. We’re just a part of his story, at least in the eyes of the world. Supporting Cast works as well as any, at least from the public’s perspective.

It’s natural that we get to know the others like us, I suppose. If nothing else, we get a chance to meet when we’re all captured by some consortium of enemies — or when our respective heroes meet up. And there are ways we understand each other better than anyone else could. We’re not really normal. We’re like celebrities, only most of us don’t have any good reason to be celebrities. We’re halfway between the heroes and the bystanders. Sometimes, it’s nice to just talk with people who understand why it’s better to be tied up with hemp than nylon cord.

I guess it’s natural I went to Victoria Delgato first. In a way, she’s my closest peer; as defined by the Lieutenant as I am by Paragon. At the same time, the Lieutenant is more public than almost any other first tier hero. Everyone knows he’s Jason McCallister. So in a way, Victoria Delgato’s story can be told more completely than most of ours.

On the other hand, there’s no one quite like her.

Victoria Delgato is a striking figure. Slender — almost elfin, with angular features and black hair. She moves carefully and deliberately, like she is studying the world around herself. She wore a pale blue dress with only simple accents, but somehow its simplicity becomes elegant on her body. She seems… fragile, almost. Though it’s a false impression. As of this writing, she’s forty-one years old, but she looks the same as she did at thirty. At twenty-five, even. While I think I’ve aged what a man would call ‘gracefully,’ she hasn’t aged so much as matured. Like a fine wine, maybe. Maybe she’s as timeless as the hero she’s so closely associated with.

Her Monument City home is open and airy — a condominium high up in a building of them, near to Harborplace towards Little Italy. And despite her surname, Victoria is more Italian than not. Her father, the infamous Boss Delgato, was half Spanish, half Italian. Her mother was a Rossi. And her apartment has an Italian feel, down to tan stucco and light accents. It is restrained, but elegant. Expensive. Victoria Delgato has always had money, and she wears it like a cloak.

But as much as her condo reflects her heritage, it’s hardly staid. The artwork is new and fresh — on one wall, a white canvas sits, black Japanese calligraphy hand brushed into place. On another a woven tapestry — a pattern instead of anything representational. The effect is organic, but everything feels intentional. The room almost energizes you just being in it. In a place like this, you understand Feng Shui, even if you don’t believe in it.

“Here you go,” she said to me, that enigmatic smile on her face. I had often seen that smile, even in grave danger, but I’d never heard her laugh until this interview. It’s an airy thing, as musical as one of her compositions. She handed me a china cup of coffee, cream already in. I’d watched her make it herself, grinding the beans in an expensive burr grinder, then pouring the ground coffee into a gold cone she proceeded to pour nearly boiling water over out of an expensive kettle. She then ground more beans, extra fine, and made herself a tiny cup of espresso, pulling it with a manual lever machine. This is what Victoria does. She makes things, and she does it by hand.

“Thanks,” I said, sipping. The flavor was rich but not overwhelming. I watched her sip her espresso — straight, no cream, water or sugar for her. I got the feeling she’d never had a Starbucks latte in her life.

She slid into a black wrought iron wire chair, in front of a black, white and red tiled table. It would have been at home in any upscale cafe. I sat opposite her, wondering if the iron wires would leave impressions in my back. “So, you’re here to talk about the Lieutenant?” she asked.

“Sort of,” I said. “Really, I wanted to talk about you. About us.”

“Ah. Of course. Our sorority. Well, sorority plus the occasional man. Do you remember — oh, you must. That time Doctor Nebula captured the two of us and Major Storm?” She smiled softly, shaking her head. “Poor, poor Kyle. He never did quite acclimate to being one of the damsels in distress. And he hated when I called him one.”

“I can’t say I like it much either.”

“Really?” Victoria raised both her eyebrows. “Whatever do you object to? The damsel, or the distress?”

“I think we brought more than chronic endangerment to the table.”

Victoria looked amused. “Some of us had pluck, dear. You certainly did. Some had other qualities.” She looked off in the distance. “As for me, I rather think I was a good damsel in distress. I wasn’t given to tears or shrieking. Really, it was embarrassing when some of our compatriots were. Do you remember… what was her name? Mm. The bottle redhead. Spent time with Arrowhead for about six months.”

“Gail Donaldson,” I said.

“Yes. Yes of course. I remember there was a gathering.” She furrowed her brow, considering. “What was it now… a recital, perhaps? One of my…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. The Lieutenant and Arrowhead matched gauntlet and bow with Colonel Darque and Fletcher Joan. I couldn’t tell you any of the particulars.” She shook her head, rolling her eyes as she remembered it. “They didn’t really threaten us. I think Fletcher Joan might have pointed an arrow at us, but if so it was at the whole crowd, not Gail or I. But that woman shrieked like she had been thrown into a volcano. No poise. No bearing. No staying power.”

“Well, not everyone faces danger stoically,” I said.

Victoria shrugged a tiny shrug. “Then she shouldn’t have dated a super hero. If you had been there, you’d have fought to turn the tables on our captors.” She smiled a bit. “That was always your style. You were more like Major Storm than someone might think. You both wanted to win the day before Freya or Paragon even crashed through the wall. And though I was never so… active….” she pursed her lips as she said it, almost distastefully. “…well, I still knew the value of watching for opportunity. And the value of minimizing the value of my capture. Knowing I was in danger inspired Jason’s best efforts, but it’s a thin line between inspiring a hero and distracting him from his work. Not Gail. Gail had to be the center of attention. Save her, no matter who else was in peril.” She fluttered her hand dismissively. “Unworthy, really. I’m glad they didn’t last as a couple.”

“Is that really how you see your role?” I asked. “You’re passive? A victim? Someone to be captured and threatened, but to sink into the background and not interfere?”

Victoria laughed that airy laugh again. “How horrified you sound. Always the feminist, aren’t you? How dare a woman in the twenty-first century embrace a passive role? A victim’s role. As if you were the one saving lives, instead of Paragon.”

“It’s better than waiting for him to rescue me.”

“Is it?” She smiled a bit more. “You sound like Jason.”

That surprised me. It must have shown, because she was even more amused. “Oh yes,” she said. “The Lieutenant believes that every man, woman or child can seize their own destiny. He’s yelled at me before — tried to get me trained in self-defense, or carry pepper spray, or…” she shrugged. “He’s tried to make me someone I’m not.”

“Sooner or later, that attitude will get you killed, Victoria.”

“Oh, certainly. I just hope my death is a beautiful one.”

“Beautiful?”

She finished her espresso, then darted her tongue out to catch the last drops from the bottom of the tiny cup. She smiled impishly, as if I’d caught her being naughty. “I work in art and music and composition, Barbara. Beauty and meaning intertwine. If my death has impact, then it will be a beautiful death. I dread dying alone in some rest home.”

“So you’re passive? That–”

“No… I’m just not an active hostage. Really, I think I’m just as curious as you are. It’s what led to all this happening in the first place, really.”

“Your curiosity?”

“And my propensity for distress.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard this story.”

She smiled a bit more. “Then it’s high time you do.”

And so she started talking, and I recorded it on my minidisc recorder, and with only light editing for clarity I pass her story on to you:

#

Victoria Delgato: This all began, in one sense, in 1982 on July the first. That has become somewhat famous as the last official encounter between Salvatore Delgato, called Boss Delgato, and Detective Lieutenant Jason McCallister, called Jayce by his friends. But in another sense, it began decades before that. You see, July the first was three days before Jason’s birthday. His sixty-fifth birthday. Which means that my dear Lieutenant was both born on the Fourth of July and precisely three days from retirement the day this happened. A double cliché.

You seem surprised. Many people are, even if they intellectually know Jason McCallister’s advanced age. Yes, in 1982 Jason was sixty-four years old — primed to become sixty five. He had been born in 1917, during the first World War. By the time he volunteered for the United States Army, in the wake of Pearl Harbor, he had already graduated from college and the police academy. Indeed, he had been an officer for… hm. I want to say three years. At sixty-four, he was still in good shape, but time had taken its toll on his muscle tone and his waistline. His hair was more white than brown. He had been a police officer for more than forty years.

And during that time, he had been my father’s most implacable foe. My father was about twelve years older than Jason McCallister. When Officer McCallister had first walked a Monument City beat, my father had already been an enforcer for the Kowalski Syndicate for some time. Father had gotten into the game during the twenties and Prohibition, and was really coming into his own. I know my father told me that Officer McCallister was the only man to ever arrest him, and that was before he had taken the syndicate over.

Which sets the stage. While Jason fought in World War II in the South Pacific — ironically reaching the rank of First Lieutenant — my father had been rated 4F by the draft board. I never asked him about it, but I know he told one curious person he’d had a perforated eardrum, and another he’d had fallen arches, so I suspect the medical reason for his disqualification involved an engorged bank account and a malignant case of examiner’s corruption. I know a lot of Kowalski’s men did go overseas, which meant my father was in a position to take the syndicate away from him. By the time Lieutenant McCallister came home and returned to Officer McCallister, the Kowalski Syndicate had become the Delgato Syndicate, and my father was simply known as ‘Boss.’

Monument City was as corrupt a city as you’ll ever see. If it wasn’t as dangerous as, say, Greystone City, that’s purely because Boss Delgato wanted the city to be safe. The syndicate and the local political machine were essentially one large organization. My father’s interests included the street pavers and the trash collectors. Our schools were nice because my father wanted them nice. It appealed to his sense of pride. The city council was made up of his cronies. The mayor was little more than his puppet. And the chief of police and the police commissioner weren’t about to interfere. Not when Delgato money ran richer than civic money.

I make my father out to be quite the civil servant, but that’s not true at all, of course. The Delgato Syndicate ran gambling and prostitution — from the numbers racket and streetwalkers up through floating craps and underground casinos staffed by the highest quality call girls. They ran drugs and branched into new ones whenever they became popular. Remember, my father ‘inherited’ the old Kowalski machine, and that had been built during Prohibition. Puritanical laws become profitable crimes. And of course, there was good old fashioned protection — every shopkeeper and craftsman in Monument City paid Delgato’s men when they came around on the first Tuesday. Those who didn’t didn’t last long, and of course the police did nothing to help them.

In all of this, there was Officer Jason McCallister — an honest policeman.

He was popular with the press — and why wouldn’t he be? Handsome, tireless, scrupulous and clean. And for forty long years, he was the most implacable enemy my father had. It was safe to say the only reason my father’s control over Monument City wasn’t absolute was because of Jason McCallister.

They tried to buy him but he wouldn’t be bought. They tried to break him but he wouldn’t be broken. They tried to smear him and ruin him but he beat it every time. So they had to settle for holding him back. Forty years of exemplary service should have led to a Captaincy, if not higher. But McCallister’s superiors held him back as much as they possibly could.

How that man kept straight and clean, I’ll never know. But he did. He believed, you see. He believed in the law and he believed in justice. And if he could never find the evidence to convict my father, he certainly tore down any number of my father’s operations. Slowly, he put together his own team of honest police officers — men and later women who were inspired by his example and strove for the dream of a clean Monument City. And despite the best efforts of my father and all the dirty men he controlled, when July of 1982 rolled around Jason McCallister had risen to Detective Lieutenant.

But Detective Lieutenant McCallister knew he was running out of time. Retirement loomed. Retirement was mandatory, and there was no chance the corrupt men over McCallister would make an exception for him. So he was doing his damndest to take my father down before it was too late.

My father, in the meantime, had never been content to rest on his laurels. He didn’t just take over Kowalski’s territory. He improved it. He innovated. In his own way, my father was a visionary, and his organization reflected that vision. He kept abreast of new technologies and techniques, and he studied and adapted to them all. Unlike most crime bosses, he maintained a staff of scientists and engineers, always working to refine the technology of crime. He had seen old Boss Kowalski eschew innovation and had vowed never to make that mistake. By the time the eighties had come around and superhumans were known to exist, my father had delved into those sciences and even into the occult.

By 1982, my father’s research goals had changed, but neither Lieutenant McCallister nor I knew it.

On July 1, McCallister had his team — the honest one — staking out an old industrial building where a lot of anomalous chemicals and equipment had been going. The police suspected this was a major drug manufacturing laboratory, which was against type for my father. Father owned and ran plenty of processing facilities like that, of course, but he typically ran them far outside of town, where deniability was easier. He had never been arrested since he took over the Syndicate — and before then only once, by Jason McCallister — because he was cautious.

As it turns out, this was one of many labs my father had commissioned since 1980, and drug manufacture was the least of his interests.

As it also turns out, both my father and I were in the building when an explosion went off. My father was inspecting the work, and I? I was curious. I didn’t know what he was up to, and I wanted to know.

I am sometimes referred to as a Crime Princess, but honestly that was never true. My father was thrilled when I was born, and resolved early that I would have nothing to do with his criminal affairs. He had me educated in private schools, had my talents encouraged, gave me affection but also taught me the value of doing for myself, not letting others do for me. Today I’ll admit to a cleaning staff but they only come in once a week. I cook my own meals, wash my own clothes and drive my own automobile on those rare occasions I wish to drive. I was home from Julliard when father left to go on his inspection, and I had my curiosity piqued by some of the things he had said to Paul, his lieutenant. Paul was like a son to him — I think my father intended Paul to be his heir in crime. I overheard him speak of white cell counts and concerns, and that he wanted to be on hand for the ‘test.’

I was curious, and I was concerned. I wasn’t a fool back then. I could tell something was wrong. So I managed to conceal myself and go along with them, and I managed to follow them. I’m quite good at not being seen, when I need to be.

They went into an inner room, where there were vats and machines, and men in white coats and eyes best described as insane were combining chemicals and electricity in ways I couldn’t easily describe. A tesla coil or jacob’s ladder wouldn’t have been out of place.

“Ah, Mister Delgato,” the leader said. He was a small man, with a head charitably described as lumpy and thick glasses. His name, I learned later, was Doctor Abraham Giles — later to be known as the rather infamous Doctor Guile, father to Beatrice Guile — the malevolent Beguile. But at the time, he worked for my father. “We believe the compounds are ready to be synthesized. You shall find that their regenerative and restorative properties are…. remarkable, to say the least.”

“You’ve been telling me that for two years, Giles,” my father snapped. “I’m running out of time and out of patience. Perniciti tells me the Osiris Effect will be ready by the weekend — what makes you think I need you?”

“Perniciti. Madness. A charlatan soothsayer no better than that Allen Chemical you sent to me. Playing on superstitions and card tricks. You will find cold science far more effective than any chunk of rock, you mark my words.”

“Besides, Boss,” Paul said. “If this works, we can reproduce it. We can sell it. Perniciti’s a good plan B but it’ll only save you.”

My father snorted. “Only, Paul?”

Paul shrugged. “That’s job one, but next week there’s gotta be job two, too.”

My father smiled, and clapped Paul on the back. “I like how you think. Especially since it means I’ll be around for it. Okay, Giles. You got something to show us?”

“Of course. I would not have summoned you unless I were completely prepared.” The little man turned, walking to the vat in the middle. He reached controls and began to work levers. Electricity began to crackle through the room. White hot heavy metals began to pour down chutes into a crucible. “Behold!” he cried out. “Behold the Panacea Elixir’s genesis!”

I could tell at this point that my father had something seriously wrong with him. Some illness — and I could suspect what one. Perhaps that drives a man to desperation. Still, I wish to this day he had confided in me before then — told me his of illness. If nothing else, I could have warned him to never employ a scientist who shouts ‘behold’ before an experiment.

The chemicals and metals combined. Later, I learned that this was meant to create a new curative. No, more that than — a cure all. And I suppose there was some method to this madness, as the infamous Doctor Guile is known to be nigh immortal, his body’s cells impregnated with a substance that reconstitutes him after any injury. Well, I can say that I saw it happen, because something in the vat failed — perhaps it was too hot, or the crucible was malformed. But it exploded, and seemed to consume the madman in white magma and fire.

The force of the explosion warped the catwalks and structures and threw molten metal in all directions. It was sheer luck that only Doctor Guile was consumed in the explosion. My father, Paul and several other scientists were far luckier. And not being fools they fled. The building, as it turns out, was largely flammable — while there were some metal supports and brickwork here and there, it had been made early in the century, meant as a mill, and had never been meant for such heat. The explosion had the entire building ablaze frighteningly quickly.

I ran, but not knowing the building, I made wrong turns. By the time I had figured out where I was and ran to escape, the way was cut off by burning timbers and thick smoke. Choking, I went another way — finding a room with a window which I threw a chair through. Too high up to jump but I could scream down. “Father!” I shouted.

They were down below, along with most of the plant workers. The fire department hadn’t gotten there yet — we were far out, remember — but because the police had been staking out the building, they were on hand. And because it was Detective Lieutenant McCallister’s crew, they had moved in to rescue as many people as they possibly could. I could see them down below, the sound of fire engine sirens in the distance. My father had a blanket on — he might have taken some fire. He was having an angry conversation with the Detective Lieutenant himself.

The two men whirled. They saw me up above. Even from several stories up, I believe my eyes locked with Jason McCallister’s.

And then I saw no more. A burning timber collapsed over me, striking me a nasty blow. If I move the dress off my shoulder and you look you can see — there, on my shoulderblade? That is a burn scar. Minor, compared with what might have happened. But it means I don’t have a conscious memory of what happened next. The next thing I remember is waking up with paramedics working on my burn, and my father crying next to me, holding my hand.

So I did not see Jason McCallister run. Run into a burning building, with just three days to his retirement. I did not hear him coughing as he took smoke and sought some means up to my floor. Did not see him run in with fire behind him, scooping me into what they call a fireman’s carry. Did not feel him jostle me as he desperately tried to escape the building.

I am told that as he ran through the inferno of the lobby, he heard the supports cracking. Cracking like the gunshots he once heard on Pacific atolls as he fought the Japanese in a war that had ended decades before my birth. Exhausted, his body failing, he got close when he heard a horrible wrenching sound.

They told me he threw me. Threw me with all his might and momentum, getting me clear of the building. I remember being scraped up when I came to — abraded from my roll on the macadam.

And they told me that the effort made McCallister fall. And then the building collapsed over him.

It is a miracle he didn’t die instantly, of course. He should have been crushed. Failing that, he should have been burned to death. But though he survived, it was not for lack of trying. Most of his bones were broken. His lung was punctured. Most of his body was hideously burned. I have seen pictures and there are nights they still haunt me. It took them hours to dig him out, and then of course he was bundled off to the hospital.

Not that he stayed there.

Father’s most advanced facility was out in Chesapeake Bay, past Whetstone Point, on an island far enough out that it was debatable if it was in international waters or not. He got us out there as soon as he could arrange it — there were inquiries into the explosion, of course, and questions being raised, but with the most prominent honest policeman on death’s door, no one was going to push. He wanted us out there in case one of his rivals — say, Carter from up North, or Giordano — decided to take advantage of the explosion to make a move.

“You’re sick,” I said quietly, after we got inside the island compound.

“Yeah,” he said.

“You’re dying.” I remember my voice feeling so hollow as I said it.

“Not if I can help it,” he told me. He then looked at me. “What were you doing there? If… I never wanted you to get hurt, baby.”

“I overheard you talking to Paul,” I said. “You should have told me.”

He looked at me a long moment, then looked down and nodded. “Yeah.” He looked back up. “I’m sending you down to the doctors — let them take a look at that shoulder. I don’t trust those meat wagon drivers they got driving ambulances.”

“All right,” I said. I followed one of his enforcers down into the building. I wasn’t surprised to discover a state of the art medical facility down there.

I was, however, surprised to see they had a patient. One wrapped in bandages, and on heavy life support. He had no chart — I’m sure they weren’t going to allow a paper trail — but despite not being able to clearly see him I knew who it had to be.

“That’s Lieutenant McCallister,” I said to the doctor as he worked on my back, across the room from the dying man.

“You didn’t hear that from me,” the Doctor said, working a salve over the burn on my shoulder.

“What… how did he get here?”

“That was me,” said one of Father’s other lieutenants — Morton, not Paul. “The Boss told me to pick him up from Franklin Square Hospital.” He laughed. “I’ll tell you — it was a bitch getting him over here without him dyin’. I was tempted to let him, too.”

“He saved my life,” I said softly. “He ran into an inferno to save me.”

There was an awkward pause. “Yeah, well, anyways. The Boss wanted him here.”

“Thank you,” I said, and turned to look at what was left of Detective Lieutenant Jason McCallister.

The compound was comfortable enough, but there really wasn’t much to do. Not if you weren’t a fan of television, anyhow. So I spent most of my time sitting near to Detective Lieutenant McCallister. Sometimes I would read to him, from the paper or from one of the books I managed to find. I felt it was important that someone be nice to him, even if he were unconscious. It was safe to say none of my father’s men were so inclined, even if my father insisted he be kept alive.

For as long as possible, anyhow.

I sat by him on the fourth of July. I softly sang happy birthday to him and everything. And it was on the fourth that my father first came down to see him.

“There’s been no change,” I said as father came in. He was wearing a bathrobe. Clearly, he had been undergoing various treatments for his cancer out here. Possibly for some time.

“That’s good,” he said. “The way he is? The only change’ll be bad.”

“Why is he here, Father?”

My father didn’t answer, looking at the man who had bedeviled him for four decades. The helpless man. It wouldn’t have taken much. Just unhook a tube or unplug a machine, and wait for him to stop breathing.

“Father?”

“Y’know, I never understood why you call me that.” He looked at me. “I called my father Poppa. I always tried to get you to call me Daddy. Must have been your mother, baby. She must have gotten in your head. Made you all formal.” He smiled, a little sadly.

“Do you want me to change?”

“Nah.” He looked down at McCallister. “You know what?”

“What?”

“He just retired. He’s not a police officer any more. As of today, he’s off the force.”

I didn’t say anything.

“For forty years, I’ve been trying to force him out. I did everything I could think of. And today? Today a man in an office hit his file with a rubber stamp and it’s done. McCallister ain’t a cop. He’s got no badge. He’s got no authority. He’s just another schmuck.”

“Are they looking for him?”

Father snorted. “Oh yeah,” he said. “But they won’t find him. Not out here.”

I nodded.

“Did he wake up? Ever?”

“I don’t think so.”

Father looked at him. “Yeah,” he said. “Let me know if he does, okay?”

“How are you feeling?”

Father smiled at me. “You know me. I could kill an ox.”

“Does that skill come up often?” I smiled back at him, though it wasn’t the happiest of smiles.

“More than you’d think.” He straightened up, and adjusted his robe. “I’ve got to go get stuck with needles, and talk with Paul and Perniciti. You meet Perniciti yet?”

I shook my head.

“Good.” He shuffled out of the room, and I went back to reading.

As it worked out, it was another eight days — the twelfth of July — before much changed. I remember I was sitting with McCallister, who was still unconscious, when I saw my father and Paul come in. They were at the far end of the room, but I have good hearing.

“It has to be today,” Paul was saying. “There’s no reason to wait any longer.”

“It might not work,” Father said. “It might be lethal.”

“You won’t be any more dead than if you do nothing. It’s not like this is plan B any more. Perniciti says–”

“I know what he says.”

Paul took my father’s arm. “Boss… we need you. We need your strength. Giordano’s making a push. We have to push back. The rumor is you’re dead — that could lead to chaos in the streets. It has to be today.”

Father looked at Paul, and patted his hand. He looked so old, right then. He was seventy seven years old, born in December of 1904. He’d had me late in life, but he loved me. As he’d loved my mother before she died. “Okay. Let’s talk to the Doctor. If it has to be today, we need to see about McCallister.”

Paul didn’t argue. They walked over to where I was sitting. Paul waved the doctor over.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked.

“Old and cancerous,” Father said. “How’s the cop?”

The doctor shrugged. “He’s getting worse.”

“Can you wake him up?”

The doctor sighed, looking down at the police officer. I had to wonder about a doctor who’d sell his soul to a crime boss. Even if that crime boss was my father. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I don’t remember asking you to recommend anything. Can you wake him?”

The doctor took a long moment to think about it, then nodded. “Yeah. But when he goes back under, he’s never coming out of it.”

“Is he gonna die anyway?” Paul asked.

“Yes.”

“Then today’s as good as any other day, right?”

“I’ll get the–”

“Wait,” Father said. “Move him upstairs. We don’t want to do this here.”

“He’s… pretty fragile.”

“Move him carefully.”

“Upstairs?” I asked.

Father nodded. “He and I — we have business.”

I nodded. “I’m coming too.”

Father frowned. “This isn’t anything you need to hear,” he said softly.

“Father, this man saved my life. You’re my father.” I took a deep breath. “And I know who you are. I’m coming with you both.”

Father smiled, just a little bit. He wasn’t happy, but he could respect that. “Let’s get him up there.”

They managed to get him up the lift, into a sunny room. This was one of Father’s R&D facilities. There were prototypes of new guns and tazers along one wall. There was a lightweight suit of bulletproof armor hanging from the ceiling, and a pair of prototype ‘enforcer gauntlets’ on a nearby table.

And across from where they positioned McCallister and all his life support equipment, there was a bronze sarcophagus. It looked vaguely Egyptian. A reed thin man in a black cloak, pale skinned with a shock of black hair stood next to it, watching.

“Do it,” my father said to the doctor.

The doctor injected chemicals into McCallister’s IV. After a few moments, he shifted, and his eye fluttered.

“Lieutenant?” my father said, louder than he’d spoken since we got there. “You there, Lieutenant?”

McCallister grunted.

“How you feeling, huh?”

McCallister’s eye opened the rest of the way. The other one was bandaged over. “Hurt,” he said, very softly. His voice was full of gravel, with oxygen still flowing into his nose through a clip of some sort. “Throat feels scratchy.”

“Yeah, well, you had a tube down it. Do you know where you are?”

McCallister didn’t answer.

“Lieutenant?”

“In trouble,” he said.

Father smiled. “Damn right. It’s just us here, Lieutenant. No one else. Oh, and for the record? It’s July twelve. You slept through your own retirement party. I’m sure someone picked your watch up for you, though.”

McCallister stared at my father.

“No speech? Well, okay. I guess that makes sense. Do you know why you’re here?”

McCallister didn’t answer.

“Lieutenant? Still with us? Do you know why you’re here?”

McCallister’s voice was rough, but a little stronger. “I’m pretty sure it’s because you dropped a building on me.”

My father grinned. “You see? This is why I like this guy. He’s badly injured, trapped and surrounded by his enemies, and he’s still making jokes.” He leaned over McCallister. “You’re dying, Lieutenant. You won’t live through the day. Do you hear me?”

McCallister took as deep a breath as he could. “I’ve… proven you wrong before, you know.”

Father rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And that right there? That’s why I hate you, McCallister. You never know when to just quit.” He stood back up. “But it doesn’t matter. You’re dying. You’re dying because you saved my daughter’s life. And that means we have business before you kick off.”

“I don’t… take deals from you, Delgato.”

“This isn’t a deal. Don’t you get it? I’d won. You were going to retire. Without you, your little friends would dry up and blow away. And you knew it.”

McCallister didn’t answer this one.

“And then? Three days before your retirement… three days before I was going to beat you once and for all… you had a chance to destroy me. To get your revenge. You could have broken me, McCallister. You could have taken away my legacy. My future. My daughter–” his voice broke, and I realized how emotional about this he really was. “My daughter was going to die, and all you had to do was turn away. I’m an old man — I couldn’t have saved her. I’d probably have died trying.”

“That’s not how I do things,” McCallister said, in that ruined voice. He was having trouble breathing, but I could see him fighting to stay awake — to stay in the room.

“Why not? Why not tear me apart the one way you know you could? Why not take the only really beautiful thing I ever had a hand in making?”

McCallister closed his uncovered eye. For a moment, I thought he might be going back to sleep — to his final sleep — but he opened it back up. “She didn’t do anything wrong. ‘S… my job to save people, not let them die… for petty… for rev…” he swallowed.

“So because she was innocent. you were honor bound to save her.” Delgato shook his head. “What if it had been me?”

“Wh… what do you–”

“What if it was me up there? What if you saw me in that window? Saw the timber hit me. Saw me go down?”

“If… if it was you?”

“That’s right, tough guy. What if it was me?”

McCallister’s eye closed again Even under the bandages, he looked… ashamed, almost. “If… if was you?”

“Yeah?”

“…the same.”

There was a long pause in the room.

“Oh, Jesus, why are we even doing this?” Morton asked. “Of course he’s gonna say that, Boss! He doesn’t want you to kill him! He’d–”

“I believe him,” my father said, softly.

“Oh come–”

“I said I believe him!” Father was annoyed now. “I’ve known this guy forty-four years, Morty. Forty four years. You think he hasn’t had a chance to put a bullet in me before? You think he hasn’t been tempted to arrange an accident? Don’t you get it?” He looked at McCallister. “It kills him to even admit it, but he believes. He believes in the law and justice and trials by jury and all the rest of it. He always has. He’d save my life and let the law arrest me all at once. And without a conviction — without evidence, he wouldn’t do anything to punish me.”

McCallister swallowed. “Th-throat… dry…”

There was ice water to hand. I think one of the medical staff brought it, flexible straw and all, so I shifted to put the straw in his mouth. I saw him looking at me with that one eye as he drank.

“Hurry, baby,” Father said. “We don’t have a lot of time to talk.”

Silently I stepped back.

“You… you screwed up this time,” he said softly. “You kidnapped me. They’re… they’re looking and my testimony….”

Morton chuckled. “Testimony, the man says.”

Father shrugged. “Lieutenant, you’re not going to live out the day, the way things stand. You’re sure as Hell not testifying against me like this.” He looked away. “Don’t you get it? Even now I’ve won. Except… except I haven’t. Because now we have business.”

McCallister looked at him. Today I wonder how he held on that long. He was in tremendous pain, even with painkillers, and he was so fragile. I suppose that famous will saw him through, though only barely, perhaps.

“You know — I haven’t shown you around the room yet,” Father said. “This is a lab, Lieutenant. This is where the next generation of criminal will be born. Look — see here.” He walked over to the hanging armor. “This is a light, flexible body armor. Bullets that go through fifteen layers of kevlar bounce off this suit, but it breathes like cotton. Age of miracles, my friend.”

McCallister didn’t answer.

“Oh, and look — I love these things.” He picked up one of the gauntlets. “It’s a prototype — these are all prototypes. But this glove? It can give an electric charge. Or trigger it and–” the side tubes snapped up into the suddenly clenched fist, for the small combat stick. “Instant billy club. You can even snap the two clubs together into like a fighting staff, and that can give an electric charge too. Think about it. Enforcers walkin’ the streets — not needing guns to shake people down. I always hated that, y’know. Guns are for enemies, not everyday schmucks. In the old days we did shakedowns with baseball bats. They’re scarier, you know.”

McCallister worked his lips.

“I didn’t even show you. See these plates?” Father turned the gauntlet, triggering it, so it fanned out into half the riot shield. “Bulletproof, even more than the suit. You put the gauntlets together, and you can stand up to machine gun fire. Huh? Huh? Pretty neat, huh?”

“You must be proud.” McCallister’s voice was weaker.

“Proud.” Father snorted. “I was.” He tossed the gauntlet onto the table. “Over there, we have better guns than the military. High tech stuff. Communications stuff. I remember Kowalski, Lieutenant. He refused to adapt to the times. Well, we live in a world where cops fly and shoot lightning out their eyes. Guys like me either become chum for the super criminals who fight them — or we become super criminals ourselves. And I’m not Kowalski, you hear me? Do you hear–” Father broke down, coughing, bending at the middle. Paul moved to support him.

Father stood, wiping something dark off his lips. “Want to hear something funny, Lieutenant? I’m dying too.”

McCallister didn’t react. He just watched.

“Cancer. All those years of cigarettes and cigars. Heh — do you remember when I was on that game show with my new wife? ‘Two for the Money?’ The one with Herb Shriner?”

“I remember.” A raspy voice. The voice of the grave.

“We won — Jesus, must have been three hundred bucks. Nothing more than that. Though that was a lot of money then, you know. You remember.” He shook his head. “They gave us each a carton of Old Gold cigarettes when we sat down at the table. Old Gold cigarettes, Lieutenant. Twenty five years later, I’m dyin’ a’cancer. I’m tempted to sue Mark Goodson and Bill Todman.”

“You smoked them,” McCallister whispered.

“Yeah, I did. And I was ready to die. I really was.” He leaned closer to McCallister. “And then miracles started to happen.”

He stood back up, gesturing. “Suddenly, Paragon was flying through the air, beams of light coming out of his eyes. Suddenly the goddess Freya was real, and all her power and magic with her. Miracles were happening. And I had the machine to make miracles of my own, Copper! I had the people, I had the money, and I didn’t have to hold back for anything!”

He looked McCallister right in the eye. “So why not get myself a miracle? Why not get myself out of this? Why does super have to mean flying men and punching and ray beams? Why can’t it mean Salvatore Delgato doesn’t die from cancer?”

McCallister sort of hissed. “Everyone dies,” he said softly.

“So far,” my father said, standing back up. “And we found it. In the Valley of the Pharaohs in Egypt, we found the Osiris Stone. The legend was it could heal the sick.” He shook his head. “And it works. I saw it clear up colds. I saw it heal cuts and scrapes in seconds. We brought in scientists and magicians to study it. It really works, McCallister.”

McCallister’s lips worked. I offered him more water, and he accepted.

“The thing is… it’s too slow. It might slow down the spread — keep me alive a little longer, but it won’t stop something like this. There’s too much damage. Too much disease. I needed something more.” He smiled. “But I’m rich and willing to take chances. I found alchemists and occultists and scientists, Lieutenant. Mister Perniciti over here figured it out.”

“Figured… what… figured what out?” He sounded weaker. I realized he was dying.

Father looked at the sarcophagus. “How to harness the Osiris Stone into the Osiris Effect. Turn the chamber on, and it’ll release all the Stone’s power — everything — into one concentrated burst. It’ll flood my body with whatever it does. It’ll do more than cure my cancer, it’ll remake me from the cells up. Do you understand, Lieutenant? That chamber is gonna make me a young man again — put me back at the start. The peak of health.” His smile turned nasty. “I’ll probably live another seventy seven years.”

McCallister worked his mouth. I could tell he didn’t want to show weakness, even when he was as weak as any human could be. But I knew that struck home.

Father’s smile slowly slipped. “It was a good plan. Come out, one way or another, and be young again, just in time for you to retire. I’d have told the boys that you were to be left alone — Hell, we’d put you on the V.I.P. list. Let you get older and older, perfectly safe, perfectly healthy for an old man… watch my organization grow and flourish.” He shook his head. “And then you saved Victoria. My legacy to the world. Maybe… maybe the only good thing I ever was a part of. And you sacrificed your own future — whatever you had left — to do it.” He looked away, and slammed his hand down on the brass. “I pay my debts, Lieutenant, and you’ve racked up a doozy.”

“What…” he shivered. “…what do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we had to talk. How do I repay someone’s legacy? How do I live up to a debt like that, especially to a dead man? Especially when the man is you? How do I use my new life to replay something like that?” He leaned over the Detective Lieutenant. “What will it take, Jason McCallister?”

“…you… m…” He shivered again. “…must be joking.”

“I pay my debts. I always have. I always will. This is your one chance.”

McCallister closed his eye. “…turn yourself in… go st…state’s evidence.”

Father turned away, snorting in disgust. “I’m not gonna spend my new life serving a double-life sentence. I don’t care what I owe you.” He shook his head. “What. Do I switch sides? Move out west? Build a new organization to clean up the streets?”

McCallister didn’t answer.

“God damn it–”

There was a noise at the end of the room. One of Father’s flunkies. Paul went over to find out what he wanted. Father glanced over, but then turned back. “Look. You need to be reasonable, McCallister. For once in your damn life — for the last time you do anything in this life — you have to meet me halfway. Give me something. A project. A rule. Something.”

McCallister opened his eyes. His voice was still soft, but steadier than a moment before. “I don’t make deals, Delgato. You want to honor me? Turn yourself in. Otherwise… better let me get on with dying.”

Father stared at him. “Jesus Christ. You never know when to quit. Fine. I wash–”

“Boss.” Paul had come back over at a run. “Giordano’s got three boatloads coming straight for here!”

“What? How did he know– doesn’t matter. Have the checkpoints stop them!”

“The checkpoints let them through, Boss. They joined them.”

Father’s jaw set. “The helicopter?”

“It’s gone. And so are the boats.”

I felt my heart hammering. “What… what does this mean?”

McCallister croaked. It almost sounded like a laugh. “…means he got sold out, miss. Ins… inside job.”

“What?”

“He’s right,” Father said. “Someone here cut a deal with Giordano.” He turned to face Morton. “Didn’t he?”

Morton looked around. Paul took out a pistol, as did a couple of the others. “Hey — you… you can’t think–”

“You were in charge of this place,” Father said. “For months. You staffed it. You set up the checkpoints. Of course it was you, Mort. Why’d you do it? Huh? Are you one’a those who thought I was insane? That this whole project to cure me was a waste? Huh?”

Morton’s fear shifted. His face set, and looked hard. “Insane? I wish you were insane, ‘Boss.’” He stood up, and straightened his coat. “I know you’re not crazy. I’ve seen what that rock can do. Jesus, it cured my damn eczema.”

“Then why–”

“What did you expect, old man?! Huh? You expect us to be happy for you? I have served you loyally for twenty years. And you know what? I knew I wouldn’t be in charge after you kicked off. I knew Paul was your favorite. And I was okay with that, because I’d still move up. We’d all move up, Delgato! Only that wasn’t good enough for you!” He stabbed a finger in Father’s direction. “You had to cheat! You had to decide to do it over again! And when it looked like you were gonna come up with some science thing — fine! You could have shared. But that box is only good for one trip! So what? I’m gonna stand here and watch you become a twenty year old? And then what — spend the back nine of my life toadying for you and Paul? No way, Boss! No way!”

Father stared at him. “You… you could have come to me, Morty. You could have talked this over with me.”

“And said what?” He shook his head. “I’ve always been loyal, Boss. But this? This is just business. Look. They get here. You make this easy. You make this smooth. Surrender, agree to retire. Spend your last few weeks in luxury. Spend them with your daughter. We’ll tear this thing apart and you can settle your affairs in peace.”

“Just business, huh?”

“Yeah. Like you and Kowalski, all those years ago. Nothing personal. I got to think about my future, is all.”

Father looked at Morton… and pulled a small pistol out of his robe pocket, shooting Morton once in the stomach, and once in the head. “Yeah? How’s that future look now, Morty?”

I stared. I stared at the gun in Father’s hand. I stared at the quivering mess on the floor that had been a living human being. The only death I’d ever seen before had been Mother, some years before. I’d never seen violent death. I’d never seen my father kill.

Father stared… until he heard McCallister cough. “You got something to say, Lieutenant?” he asked, quietly.

“You… y’r… you’re under arrest,” McCallister said, his voice soft. “…for the murder of Jack Morton.”

Father didn’t laugh. He just handed Paul the pistol, turning. “You’re not a cop any more,” he said, quietly.

“…doesn’t matter,” McCallister said. “…you talk and you talk about what you’re gonna do… talk while I’m dying here and you talk about honoring my life…” he shivered, clearly in pain. “…and not five minutes later you murder a man.”

Father stared at him, and then turned to look at Morton’s body.

“Boss,” Paul said. “We’re out of time. Get in the chamber. I’ll get the men — the ones I can trust. We’ll set a barricade. We’ll keep them out while you get this done. Then you and Victoria can–”

“I killed him,” Father said, softly. “I talked about honoring McCallister. I talked about Victoria — my one good, pure child, and then I killed him right in front of them both.”

“Boss. We have less than fifteen minutes! We have to–”

“I never wanted you part of this,” Father said, turning to me. “I never wanted you to see this side of me, baby.”

“Father,” I whispered. “I love you. And I know who you are.”

His chin rose with that. “You know who I am,” he said, softly. “I never wanted that.”

“Boss.”

“Paul — is my suit laid out?”

“Yeah, but–”

“Go and set the barricade. Take the prototype weapons — they might turn the tide. I’m gonna go change and I’ll join you. Maybe they’ll listen to me. If not, maybe I can help hold them off.”

“Boss, get into the chamber!”

Father turned to Paul. “Go!”

Paul looked at him for a long moment.

“It’s all right, Paul. I’ll be with you.”

Paul choked, and ran. The others went with him.

“Father…”

“Victoria…” he turned to look at me. “Detective Lieutenant McCallister saved your life.” He reached out, and touched my face in his hand. I remembered him touching my face, just like that, any number of times as he tucked me into bed. “And you are my legacy. My real one. I don’t want you part of this life. Not ever. Make your music. Give something beautiful to the world.”

“Father…” I choked back my own tears, and hugged him.

After too short a time, he let me go. “Mister Perniciti? You and my daughter have to move the Detective Lieutenant into the chamber. Hurry. The moment you take him off support he’ll start to die. And moving him won’t help, for that matter. But don’t worry about being gentle. If he lives long enough for this damn thing to be turned on, it won’t matter any more. He’ll be reborn.”

“Mister Delgato,” Perniciti said, his voice thick with an accent I didn’t recognize. “You do understand this chamber will only work once. It is designed to consume the Osiris Stone completely. There will not be anything left to cure you.”

Father looked at him. And then he turned to look at McCallister. “I can’t adapt enough,” he said. “Just like Kowalski couldn’t. And I pay my debts, Mister Perniciti.” He leaned close to his old enemy. “You win after all,” he said softly.

“…Delgato… there must… must be another…”

Father stood. He looked at me. I whispered that I loved him, and he said a few things to me I don’t think you need to know for your book. And then he left, leaving only me, Perniciti, and Detective Lieutenant Jason McCallister.

“Come,” Perniciti said. “We have little time.” He moved to the right side of the bed. I moved to the left. And we started pulling tubes out.

“…insane…” McCallister rasped. “…you can’t really thAHHHHHGH!” The pain hit as we started to move him, broken bones and burned skin under his clothing being compressed and shifted. We heard him begin to gurgle, his lungs and chest not strong enough to breath without the clips.

“You must hold on to life,” I whispered. “You must want to live, Lieutenant. Or this will be for nothing.”

He made some kind of wet, coughing noise — perhaps he was trying to answer me. We got him into the sarcophagus. Perniciti tore some of the clothes and bandages off, and pulled the lid down.

In the distance, we heard cracks. Shots. It was beginning.

Perniciti murmured words in some language I didn’t understand, and he threw a large brass switch. The chamber hummed, and then began to glow, energy flowing through it like blood through a heart.

“What — how long will–”

“Not long,” he said, looking at me. “When the noise stops, you must release the locks on the side. They lift and unlatch, Miss Delgato. Then lift up.”

“But — you–”

“My part in this is done. All has happened as has been foretold.” He nodded to me. “Until our next meeting.” And he strode for the door.

I sat back, listening to the sound of the chamber — a roar of life, and the scream of a man being reborn. I stared at the dead man on the floor, and I listened to gunfire from down below.

And then, when the machine was quiet, I unlocked the chamber and lifted the lid.

Jason McCallister blinked his eyes open. His hair was dark, his eyes blue-grey. His body was nude, and looked sculpted, as if he had modeled for some classical statue of the gods. He was not simply younger. He was at the peak of human condition.

“We do not have much time, Lieutenant,” I said, softly.

“Miss Delgato,” he said, before stopping, surprised at his own voice. So strong — so young. He lifted his hand, seeing the muscles play along his arm. “…I… I don’t believe it….”

“We must be amazed later,” I said. “My father has left behind the body suit and the gauntlets. They may not be much against Giordano’s weapons, but if we are to have any chance to survive–”

He took my hand, sitting up. “Miss,” he said softly. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

I looked in his eyes, and though I knew that my father would die — either down below, right at that moment, or soon enough from the cancer, I smiled, just slightly. “My father has chosen me as his legacy, and given you back your own. Let us be worthy of those gifts now, Lieutenant.”

I helped him put the suit on. He didn’t have much time to figure out the gauntlets. When he heard them in the stairwell, he went out to meet them, moving with such speed, such strength. And of course he beat them. He had his army training, plus he had studied some martial arts. Judo and Jiu Jitsu in the fifties, I later found out. And then some Karate. After all this, he studied more, of course.

In the end, we nearly died, but two heroes — the armored Centurion and the goddess Freya — arrived to clean up the mess, having gotten reports from the Coast Guard of automatic weapons fire on that little island. I still remember Freya demanding to know who he was, even as Giordano’s remaining men cowered from the Centurion’s energy weapons.

“Detective Lieutenant Jason McCallister,” he shouted back up to her. “Monument City Police Department!”

“Of course, Lieutenant,” she called back, and flew down to help her comrade.

And so he was the Lieutenant.

#

Back in Victoria Delgato’s dining room, I was a little amazed. “I knew that Jason McCallister became the Lieutenant in your father’s compound. But — I had no idea–”

“You didn’t realize my father sacrificed his own miracle for Jason’s.” She smiled that spooky little smile. “And his life with it. I found him in the foyer of our building. He had been shot many times.”

I bit my lip. I know it had been twenty-two years, but what do you say to someone when they talk about finding their father’s bullet ridden corpse.

She stood. “We’ve passed beyond noon. I have some light fare I can offer, and I think perhaps we should open a bottle of wine, don’t you?”

“I… sure. Of course. Can I give you a hand?”

“If you would like.” She considered the Japanese lithograph for a moment. “His was a beautiful death.”

“Sounds pretty gruesome to me.”

“Not at all. Jason McCallister had sacrificed his life to save mine. Father sacrificed his own to give McCallister his life back.”

“Do you think it redeemed him?”

“Hm? Of course not. My father was a monster. It wasn’t about redemption.”

That stopped me short. “It wasn’t?”

“Of course not.” She looked at me. “If Father were to seek absolution, he would have had to turn himself in, just as the Lieutenant said. It would have been miserable and long, a full life spent in prison, or worse. He couldn’t do that. In death, he repaid his debt to Jason McCallister, but avoided his debt to society.”

“Then what made his death so… beautiful?”

She smiled a bit more as she walked into the kitchen. “He was true to himself. His death had meaning, but it was a meaning that validated his life and views, rather than repudiated them.”

“So what happened then?”

“You know most of that story. McCallister became the Lieutenant — and eventually he was empowered as a law enforcement officer… hm. Almost everywhere, it seems. I know that in 1992 state legislatures passed bills giving him police powers in their states, as if he were an officer of their State Police, and the–”

“I know all that. I mean what happened with the two of you. Last I knew you two weren’t… um….”

“We have never been in any kind of relationship. Nor will we ever. We are friends, after our fashion. He travels with me sometimes. I travel with him sometimes. In a way, he’s like a brother to me. Which is odd, considering he will be eighty seven years old this July.” She looked distant, even as she got cheese out of her refrigerator. “He doesn’t look any older than thirty. The last twenty-two years have barely touched him. Perhaps the Osiris Effect has given him everlasting youth.”

I hehed. Having been associated with Paragon — who stopped aging around thirty, for all intents and purposes — I knew that feeling all too well.

“But I suppose the tenor of our relationship started early. It was saving my life that led, ultimately, to his rebirth. And as we’ve established, I have something of a knack at becoming endangered.”

“And not doing anything to get out of it?”

She laughed that airy laugh. “I should think you would understand that now. But we were speaking of my relationship with the Lieutenant.” She considered. “Really, that was settled between us about a week after my father’s death and Jason McCallister’s rebirth.”

#

I knocked on the door of his apartment. It was a second floor walkup, which meant I had some difficulty with the cases, but I managed. I have always been quite good at managing when I need to.

He opened the door, and was surprised to see me. “Miss Delgato,” he said.

“Please, call me Victoria. May I come in?”

He stepped back. “Sure. Please. Come on in.” He was wearing blue jeans that looked a bit stiff. New. And he wore a dark sweat shirt, with the sleeves pushed up.

His apartment was clearly usually well kept, but he had packages and parcels in his living room, with clothing — about half of it folded — strewn about. “You’ve been shopping,” I said, smiling a bit.

“Yeah, well — as it turns out, I don’t fit in any of my old clothes now. Not even stuff from twenty years ago.” He shrugged, almost embarrassed. “I have more muscle mass than I used to.”

“Indeed.” I looked at him. “We have some loose ends to tie up, Lieutenant.”

He nodded. “I imagined we would. Want a cup of coffee?”

“Please.” As a side note, I do not recommend Jason McCallister’s coffee. But I did not know that at the time. “Lieutenant, I thought you should know–”

“Jayce.”

“Excuse me?”

“Call me Jayce.”

“I think not.”

He laughed. “Suit yourself. So you were saying?”

“I’ve liquidated my father’s assets.”

He looked at me. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I’ve sold the legitimate holdings. The businesses and the properties.”

He frowned. “What about the illegitimate ones?”

“There was a bidding process. Some of those businesses went to Mister Carter. For the most part, Mister Giordano has taken them over.”

He stared at me. “You let Giordano take over?”

I shrugged. “Largely. There was some money involved though mostly I got firm understandings that I would not be involved in these businesses in any way.”

“He killed your father!”

“I’m well aware of that, Lieutenant. There is hardly a need to shout.”

He was still staring at me. “I don’t think you are aware of it. You’ve rewarded the man who had your father killed with the lion’s share of his criminal empire! I don’t…” he turned away, stunned. “Why didn’t you do something?”

“Like what?”

“You were in a position to shut all this down — to dismantle the syndicate and the machine. And you gave it all up to Giordano?”

“That’s correct.”

He turned back to me, still incredulous. “For God’s sake — why?”

“Because my father wanted me to stay out of that life, Lieutenant.”

He stared, and shook his head. “You had a responsibility–”

“No, I really didn’t.” I smiled a bit more. He’s learned to be infuriated at my smile. “I will not be involved with his businesses, either legal or illegal in nature. If I attempted to dismantle his organization, it would define my life as much as if I took up the mantle of leadership in it. I do not choose to define my life by my father’s, Lieutenant.” I cocked my head, still looking at him. “Or didn’t you mean what you told him, back on the twelfth?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said I was an innocent. That I didn’t do anything wrong. That’s why you couldn’t let me die even though I was the daughter of your worst enemy. Did you mean that? Or do you think the sins of my father do stain me?”

He opened his mouth, somewhat slack jawed. It would not be the last time I caused that reaction in him. “Well, no, but–”

“Well. So I have chosen to rid myself of his sins. Are you saying I had the responsibility to bear them, instead? Are you saying that is fair?”

“No. No of course not, but… Giordano?”

“Had Paul survived, I would have given him all of it. But he died with my father. And Giordano was in the right position to guarantee I would not be involved ever again. It was the best choice.”

“Miss Delgato–”

“Please. Call me Victoria.”

“But you won’t call me Jayce?”

“Correct.”

He shook his head. “Fine. Victoria… how can you… he was your father.”

“Yes he was. And I will respect his wishes. In at least two ways.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… I will stay out of it, and be the legacy he wanted.” I stepped back to the door, opening it and lifting the portfolio off the top of the cases. Turning back, I walked over to hand it to him. “And I will help you to achieve the legacy you want. The one my father gave back to you.”

He accepted the portfolio, opening it. “What is–”

“Records, Lieutenant. All the transfers and businesses I’ve sold, and to whom. Including manifests and–”

He stared. “You’re… Victoria, they’ll kill you.”

I shrugged, still smiling. “Hopefully not. Besides, they won’t know it’s me, and until they have proof they won’t hurt me. They made an arrangement to leave me out of it.”

“These aren’t honorable men, Victoria.”

“No, they’re not. But you are.”

He looked at me. “Victoria… I’ll call my old friends… but… I’m retired.”

“Really?”

He laughed, uncomfortably. “I didn’t want to be. But no matter how young I feel, or how long I’ll live, the regulation says that retirement is mandatory at sixty-five. And even though your father is gone, his machine’s in place. They’re not about to give me a badge or any kind of authority.”

“Mm. I’m hardly surprised.”

“Then what do you expect me to do about it?”

“Come here and give me a hand, and I’ll show you.”

He helped me get the cases inside. The ones with the prototype armor and the gauntlets. He was surprised again. “Didn’t you sell these?”

“I didn’t sell any of my father’s advanced weapons or gear. I oversaw the destruction of the prototypes and their schematics. I can’t imagine I got all of it, but a lot is gone now. All but these. The plans to them are in the bottom of the case as well — if you can find a good engineer–”

“Wait… these are yours?”

“No, Lieutenant. These are yours.” I took his hand in both of mine, cupping it. “My father said we live in an era of miracles. A miracle has healed your injuries and given you back your youth, in time to be a part of this new age. This will help you do it.”

“What would your father think?”

“This isn’t his decision. This is mine. Call it my thank you for saving my life, not once but twice.”

He looked at the gauntlets in the case. “You know, I have no authority to go out and fight crime. I have no badge and no–”

I laughed, which surprised him. “I’m serious,” he said.

“I know you are. You’re always serious, Lieutenant. But that’s what made me laugh.” I touched his face, and then started to walk back to the door. “My father was right about one thing — this new world needs to be adapted to. In the end, he couldn’t adapt to it.” I paused in the open doorway. “You have the tools, and you have the cause. Can you adapt yourself to use them, Jason McCallister?”

I left before he could answer. But with the perspective of time, it’s clear he was up to that challenge.

#

“So how often do you see him,” I asked. We were both approaching tipsy off of a Shiraz/Cab Sav blend — I wouldn’t have thought it would pair well with cheese, but then my knowledge of wine comes from old Odd Couple reruns, and I should have known Felix was blowing smoke.

“Mmm. It goes in waves. I haven’t seen him for six weeks now. But then we’ll see each other every day for a month. When I’m between projects, I might follow him around and do whatever domestic chores he needs done, or he might follow me as part of my entourage. It really depends.”

“All that and you don’t love him?” I laughed. “I don’t believe it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You follow him around and clean up after him, and you say you don’t–”

“No. Why do you say I do not love him.”

I blinked. The wine made me a little foggy, but I felt sure I wasn’t remembering wrong. “You said you weren’t in a romantic relationship, and that–”

“We’re not. We never will be. But of course I love him.”

I blinked again. “I’m confused.”

“My mother was from Italy. She taught me many things about love. One of them is that love is not one thing or another. It is infinite and varied. I love Jason McCallister deeply, but I would never kiss him, much less marry him. I would gladly die for him–”

“But not fight for him?”

“I do not fight for anyone — even myself. Don’t you see? I do not promote crime and I do not fight crime. I stay out of it.”

“Until they capture you.”

“Just because they capture me does not mean I have to participate.”

“Wait — is this about your father and what he…” I shook my head, trying to clear it. “So you love the Lieutenant but… okay, I admit it. I don’t understand you at all.”

Victoria smiled. “That’s all right. I understand you, Barbara.”

And maybe she does.

In the twenty two years since Boss Delgato died and Jason McCallister was reborn, a lot has changed in Monument City. The Giordano and Carter mobs have both collapsed. The corrupt political machine’s been broken wide open and a moderately honest civic government’s gone into place. There’s still crime in Monument City, but on the whole it’s a safe place to live.

In the twenty two years since the crucible exploded and the Osiris Effect gave its one beneficiary a new life, Doctor Abraham Giles — or Doctor Guile — has plagued the heroic community and the mysterious Mister Perniciti — also called Enigma — has sometimes worked with the heroes and sometimes opposed them.

In the twenty two years since Victoria Delgato was saved by Jason McCallister for the first time, she has composed two symphonies, three requiems, thirty-eight concertos, nineteen sonatas and two operas. She is considered one of America’s top working composers and pianists.

And, whether or not I understand Victoria Delgato, I’m jealous of her. Whatever Paragon and I have been to each other, if I had never met him he would still have pulled on tights and fought for honesty, decency and integrity. He would still be a hero. He would still be Paragon. But without Victoria Delgato, Jason McCallister would have retired in 1982, then probably gone on to watch Boss Delgato reincarnated into a new, young body. At eighty-seven, he might still be alive but the smart money wouldn’t have been on it.

Which means Victoria Delgato — whether in distress or not — is integral to the Lieutenant’s creation. That’s something almost none of the rest of us Supporting Cast can claim.

A bit too tipsy to drive, I got a cab back to my hotel. I figured I could get the rental out of the garage later. She saw me off, as gracious and pleasant as always. “Good luck with the book,” she said as I left, that same damnable smile on her face.

“Thank you for all your help,” I answered, and we did that weird double air kiss thing I do when I have to, but I’ve never understood.

“Barbara?” she called from her condominium door, as I was getting onto the elevator.

“Yes?”

“If you’re not his damsel in distress… what are you?”

I looked at her for a long moment. Then, the doors closed, sparing me from having to answer her.

In a way, it’s more stock than a lot of what I’ve written, particularly for fantasy. At the same time, there’s more of a horror dimension than a lot of my fantasy work.

It’s also distinctive because it’s one of the few stories to involve Fort Baxter, a fictional Maine town along the Canadian border, meant to be my home town of Fort Kent with serial numbers filed sort of off and a fresh coat of paint over it.

I think I probably wrote this while I was finishing up college. I was really into the idea of language critical theory/linguistic critical theory/the sign-significator-significated trichotomy for a while then. I’m a little surprised this isn’t more pretentious than it is as a result.

Apropos of nothing, the lead is named Karin MacDougal.  In 1997, a Karen McDougal became a somewhat more-famous-than-usual Playboy Playmate and then Playmate of the Year. From the tone of this piece, I believe it was written at least four and possibly more years before 1997, so despite the name, this is not an homage to a hot chick.

Also apropos of nothing, I used to make homemade hot cocoa like is described in here.

*** *** *** ***

I was fourteen the first time I heard Uncle Roger use language.

He’s not my uncle. He isn’t even technically my stepfather’s brother. But they grew up together. They spend a lot of time talking. Well, Uncle Roger talks. Dad listens.

We were in the kitchen. I was making Nestle Quik. He was making tea. I heard a noise — like a tapping. It was a chickadee in the feeder, cracking open sunflower seeds with its little beak. I laughed when I saw it. Chickadees look so silly sometimes.

I must have scared it. It darted out of the feeder, landing on its small roof and looking all around itself. It looked sort of like a cartoon character. I laughed again, but Uncle Roger looked at me crossly. Then he leaned close to the glass and spoke through it to the bird.

I didn’t know the words he used, or what language they were in, but the bird cocked it’s head as though it were listening, looking in the house with one amber eye. And then it dropped back down into the feeder and started eating again.

I watched Uncle Roger as he crouched down a little near the window. He was looking at the chickadee, and whispered something. “Arrebee,” I think. It was tender, sort of,

And then he stood up, and took a deep breath. When he turned around, he didn’t look like my harmless old uncle. His brown eyes were deeper, some how.

“How did you coax him back down?” I asked. “Chickadees are scared easily.”

“Birds aren’t toys, Karin,” he said. “You shouldn’t treat them like they are.” And that was all he said about it.

I was seventeen the next time I heard Uncle Roger use language. He didn’t talk to birds that time.

I had more or less forgotten about the bird. It was weird but not too weird. But I had taken to paying more attention to the way Uncle Roger acted, especially when he thought no one was watching. How he would stare at things for a long time. How he would pick things up and heft them in his hand, like he was measuring them. I remember when my mother gave him a ceramic coffee cup her father had made for her. He spent ten minutes just looking at it, running his fingers along the cracks and patterns. There were times he held it to his ear, and tapped his finger on the rim. It made a hollow ringing sound that he repeated until he could hum the same note, about two octaves down.

And I had noticed the way he talked. The cadences he would get in his voice when he told a story or explained some piece of trivia. The way he built a joke up with words, or wove a musical web when he sang. I noticed these things more closely.

And once or twice, I noticed him noticing me. Seeing my interest, and weighing it like the coffee cup.

But anyhow, I was seventeen. It was October, I think, and pretty chilly. Fort Baxter gets snow in November most years. We’re far enough north so that we get a nasty gulfstream. I was mad, because my boyfriend, Brad, was supposed to give me a ride home. He had forgotten he had an evening shift at Andy’s, so he begged off.

My parents’ house is on Farmer Street, right off of College Street. But I was taking the back way since Brad lived downtown, over Village Square Fashions. It was faster to take the back streets, and I was cold and it was raining, sort of. But the back streets weren’t very well lit.

I wasn’t scared. There was no reason to be. Fort Baxter, Maine has a violent crime rate so close to zero it isn’t funny. Even near BaxState it’s pretty quiet. I was just mad and cold and damp.

The wind came in gusts, blowing my hair in my eyes. I pushed it back for the third or fourth time… and I knew I wasn’t alone.

I just knew. I can’t explain how or why. I knew someone was watching me. That they were following me. Or maybe I was crazy, but I started to walk faster.

I could hear boots on macadam behind me. I began to run.

Something dull shoved me in the small of the back. It didn’t hurt, but I pitched forward, scraping my knees. I screamed, but no one lived very close. The man landed on me, grabbing my shoulders and yanking me up. He thrust me down hard, then slammed me down again. I started to cry.

And everything got very quiet. The wind died. Even the rain stopped. My sobs and incoherent words seemed louder then they were.

The man yanked me onto my back. He was older — forty, maybe — wearing a parka and bonnet. It was too dark to see what color they were — he looked like any of the local loggers. “Shut up,” he snapped at me, looking around like a startled cat. I didn’t stop crying, of course, so he slapped me and shouted it at me.

I shut up, but not because he hit me. Something — some kind of sound or pressure — was building around us.

“Who’s there!” he shouted. His words echoed around us.

The wind stirred again, blowing brown leaves up into a dust devil. The trees seemed to be whispering. I could smell ozone.

“Who the Hell’s there!” my attacker shouted.

There was a sound — like the hum of train tracks before you could hear the train itself coming. Or a string bass being played with a metal bow. I felt goosebumps ripple on my flesh.

There were telephone poles stretching wire along the road. The metal pins and cable guides began to glow green with Saint Elmo’s fire. The smell of Ozone was everywhere, with a mettalic tinge to it.

With a clap of thunder that sounded like an explosion, the storm broke all around us. The wind ripped at us both, causing the man to roll off of me and wrap his hands over his head in terror.

And then I saw my Uncle Roger. He was walking towards us, arms outstretched and he was shouting something I couldn’t understand. It reminded me of Latin or Italian, but I knew it wasn’t either. He looked huge — more a part of the storm than a man caught in it.

He stabbed his finger at my attacker, screaming a word. A lightning bolt split the sky, stabbing Uncle Roger’s finger and reflecting off of it like a living tendril of light. It grounded into my attacker, and the man twisted and shook, his muscles locking.

I screamed again, and forced myself to my feet running. I wasn’t running for home or for Brad’s house. I just ran from what I couldn’t understand. The thunder tore all around me and the rain drove through my windbreaker, but I just kept going until I reached the woods. There were paths but I didn’t take them. Instead I just kept going, branches and boughs snapping at my feet until finally I collapsed, exhausted, and sobbed at the base of an oak tree.

When I finally cried myself out, the rain had stopped. I got up and turned around.

Uncle Roger was standing there, watching me. He didn’t look ten feet tall any more. He looked like the Uncle who used to tell me stories about Odysseus and Heracles. Like my favorite babysitter.

“You have to be cold, Karin,” he said to me.

“Uh huh,” I sniffed.

“Come on. Let’s get you warmed up. Everything’s okay. I promise.” He held his arms out to me, like my stepfather did when I was little and scared of the dark.

Slowly I went to him, and he wrapped his coat around my shoulders and led me through the maze of trees.

“Is he dead?” I asked Uncle Roger.

“Who?”

“The man. The man who attacked me.”

“No,” he said to me. “He isn’t dead. But he won’t be able to hurt you.”

I never found out what happened to the man. Uncle Roger led me to his house, where he cleaned the cuts I got from branches in the woods and checked me for broken bones. He gave me Hot Chocolate he made from scratch and called my folks to tell them I was okay.

I tried to ask him what he had done. How he had bent lightning and shouted up a storm. But he evaded me, for once quiet. As I was leaving, I turned back to him.

“Will you ever tell me what happened tonight?” I asked.

“When you know what questions to ask, I’ll answer them,” he said, and shut his door.

The next time I heard Uncle Roger use language, I was twenty.

I had tried to bring up the subject a number of times, of course. But Uncle Roger either misdirected my question into a different subject or failed to hear me. I cornered my stepfather once and asked him, point blank.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked me. He looked — maybe scared, or nervous. But mostly like I was prying into something private. Something almost embarresing.

“I saw him hit a man with lightning,” I said. “He shouted something and a lightning bolt wrapped around his hand and went where he wanted it to go.”

“Did the man deserve it?”

“He had knocked me over and… and was going to hurt me, I guess.” I had never told my folks about what had happened.

Dad got a slightly angry look on his face. “Did — are you… were you all right?” he asked.

“Yeah. Before the guy could really hurt me, everything got all–”

“Don’t tell me,” Dad said. “I don’t need to know. Just… just remember this. If your Uncle Roger felt he had to attack that man to protect you, he had to. He never does anything he doesn’t have to.”

“But how did he do it?” I asked.

Dad got a far-away look on his face. “He went away for a while,” he said to me. “Somewhere on the West Coast, and then England.” He looked at me again. “After he came back… he could do strange things.”

“But–”

“If you want to know, you’ll have to ask him. I don’t know and I don’t want to. But I trust him.”

By the time I was a Junior at Bowdoin college, I had tried to find the right questions to ask Uncle Roger. I had studied folklore and mythology. Literature and anthropology. I had originally thought to major in communications, but consciously or unconsciously I had switched to English. A B to C student in High School, I was an A student in college. My parents were so proud of me. So was Uncle Roger, who himself taught English at Baxter State right in Fort Baxter. When I was home on breaks and during vacation, he would come over and talk about poetry with me. He spoke passionatly, making the subject come to life. And he showed me some of the poetry he had written and published, and asked to see mine. I don’t know how he knew I had been trying to write poetry, but he did.

When I was twenty I was in my senior year, home for Christmas break. I got in around eleven thirty at night and was met by the whole family. It had been a mild winter in Brunswick, where I went to college, so the thick blanket of snow that covered my home town was almost welcome. Winters should be full of snow and ice coating the trees. I stayed up half the night with my mother and stepfather before road fatigue drove me to bed. The next morning I woke up early, had a cup of coffee (I had taken it up at Bowdoin), and walked down Farmer Street to Uncle Roger’s house.

It was snowing. Big, white flakes that made the boundry between sky and ground suspect. I loved the snow. Growing up, snow meant sliding and snowball fights and skating and skiing. If it snowed hard enough, the school buses couldn’t get through and we had a snow day. Up in Northern Maine, the snow was your friend. So by the time I made it to Uncle Roger’s, I was in a really good mood.

There was a strange car in his driveway. A Lincoln Town Car, black. All Town Cars are black, I think. It had Massachusetts plates, so Uncle Roger had visitors. Relatives, maybe. They might have been over for Christmas.

I knocked and looked at the wreath on Uncle Roger’s door. The Jaycees sell them each year, and Uncle Roger paid for a good one. It was woven out of blue pine, with a cluster of broad pine cones in its center and a red ribbon tied in a bow beneath it. It was festive and homey all at once.

The door opened, and a strange blond man stared out at me.

I was almost shocked to see him. I didn’t recognize him, but somehow I felt… nervous. Frightened, almost. He wore a black suit with a white shirt and gold cufflinks. His hair was combed back and immaculate. His eyes were grey and they stared into mine like icicles.

“Yes?” he asked, his voice colder than the outside air.

“Is… um, is Professor Dalton here?”

“What is your business with Doctor Dalton?” he asked, almost mocking. As though he couldn’t believe I had business with ‘Doctor Dalton.’

“Edward,” my Uncle’s voice rang out sharply. “I don’t believe I made you my secretary, so please don’t screen my visitors.” He stepped into view, opening the door wide. “Karin!” he said warmly, opening his arms to me. I melted into them and hugged him, hard. “I had no idea you were back — you haven’t written to me in too long, young lady!”

“Hi Uncle Roger! I know, I know, but I’ve been awfully busy. Look, I can come back later if you’re busy–” I cast a cold look at ‘Edward.’ “–maybe when you’re alone.”

“Oh don’t mind Edward,” he said. “He’s an old friend of mine who’s unfortunate enough to be a lawyer in a large city. He sometimes forgets what human contact is like.”

“Yes,” Edward said crisply. “In my line of work, I get so little of it. Well, are you going to introduce me to your friend or should I go see what Porter is up to in the kitchen.” Edward’s voice was high — a tenor, maybe — and crisply British.

“Of course. Edward Chambers, this is my niece, Karin. Karin McDougal, this is an associate of mine late of Piccadilly, now of Boston.”

“Niece,” Edward asked with an upraised eyebrow. “I thought that – o-hooo… Frank McDougal’s daughter, of course.”

“Stepdaughter,” I said. It might have been unfair to a man who had served as my father since I was ten, but I couldn’t ever quite call him my real father. There were still days I missed my real father.

“Ah. Stepdaughter but not stepniece? Or have I misconstrued the relationship.” I felt a flash of annoyance and let go of my Uncle. I could tell I’d probably never like Edward Chambers late of Piccadilly.

“Probably,” my Uncle said lightly. “You misconstrue so much else in your day.” It sounded like Uncle Roger was joking, but Edward flinched like he were hit.

So there was tension between the two of them, too.

“Well, I’m off to get a paper,” Edward said. “I’ll let you two get reaquainted. I hope I won’t interrupt when I return. Porter!”

Porter was a large man in a black uniform. A chauffer, it looked like. The two of them left and I breathed a little easier.

“Sorry,” Uncle Roger said, walking towards the kitchen. “Edward’s rough around the edges. He grates on people, somewhat unintentionally. But he’s not a bad sort, really.”

“I can’t say I like him,” I said, sniffing. I had a minor cold — I got one every winter, and it was worse in Brunswick, near the coast. It didn’t get cold enough to throw the germs into remission.

“You don’t know him yet, Chickadee. When you know him, you can dislike him legitimately. Hot Cocoa?”

“Please! Thanks.” I grinned. Uncle Roger smiled and set about making it. He didn’t use Swiss Miss or Carnation. Instead, he got out baker’s chocolate and sugar and dry milk and blended them in the mug. The cocoa was thick and had money on top and was bittersweet instead of cloying. He asked about classes and we fell into a talk about William Blake, who I was studying in my Romantic and Victorian Poetry seminar.

Edward didn’t come back for quite a long time, and Uncle Roger didn’t seem to be giving him another thought, so I stayed for hours. Finally, around four thirty, I was staring into the fire (Uncle Roger had a Jørdül in his sitting room) while Uncle Roger made a phone call. I felt safe.

“Such a pretty little thing,” I heard whispered into my ear, and I jumped.

Edward Chambers smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t resist.”

“Whatever,” I said tensly. “I better be going.”

“Wait a moment,” Chambers said. “Let me look at you.”

“I’ll be late for dinner,” I said, rising.

“Selth,” he said, his left hand blurring into what looked like American Sign Language. I felt a chill run down my spine and into my bones, and suddenly I couldn’t move. It didn’t feel like paralysis. It was like I had no idea how to tell my arms to push me off the couch. Like I had no idea how to make my legs lift me up.

Edward Chambers circled in front of me, those eyes piercing me. “You are lovely,” he said. “So pretty and fresh. But that’s not it, is it.” He seemed to be scrutinizing me. Not leering — or not much. But probing. Memorizing. Trying to learn as much about me as Uncle Roger had learned about the coffee cup, years before. “No… there are any number of girls as pretty or prettier.

“So what are you? A protegé? An apprentice? Your eyes are quick. Your voice is sweet. The potential is there… but is he going to use it?”

“Perhaps he is, and perhaps he isn’t,” my Uncle said, stepping into the room. “Either way, it’s no business of yours, Edward.” His voice was icy cold.

Edward laughed. “Call it professional interest,” he said.

“Release her.”

“Just answer a question or two first. Is she yours? Are you grooming her? For what? I thought you didn’t play our games, Roger.”

The two locked eyes. Uncle Roger made a pass, his hands twisting in that same American Sign Language varient. Chambers snapped his hands up, twisted into their own odd symbols. He whispered as he did it, and Uncle Roger’s forehead beaded with sweat.

“Eldorr Edward Cinjin Chambers aresti!” Uncle Roger shouted, and Edward’s hands and voice froze. “Orbitse.”

Edward’s eyes held Uncle Roger’s for a long moment, then looked to the floor. “Pandeth.” he said, sounding disgruntled.

“Alke ne porth Karin.” Uncle Roger said. It sounded like he was just talking.

Edward looked at me. “Anti se porth Karin?”

“Banne.”

“Tuke.” Edward spelled a word with his fingers, and suddenly I could move.

But I didn’t. I was scared and angry, all at once.

“I think perhaps you should go back to your Hotel,” Uncle Roger said to Edward.

“Perhaps,” he said. He glanced back at me. “She really has no clue, does she?”

“That depends on the mystery we’re discussing.”

Edward chuckled. “I do love your little word games, Roger. Well, say hello to Franklyn for me.”

“Francis. Frank to you.”

“Of course.” I noticed Porter for the first time — he was standing by the door with Edward’s coat. Edward took it and the two walked into the snowy twilight.

Uncle Roger settled heavily onto the couch in front of the fire. He looked weary. “I really am getting too old for this sort of thing,” he said.

“You’re not old,” I said quietly.

“Really? That’s good to know. I feel old, though.” He looked at me. “I owe you an apology. Edward’s actions were unconscienceable.”

“You owe me more than an apology,” I said, leaning forward. “I think you owe me an explaination.”

“When–”

“When I know the questions to ask, you’ll answer them. I heard you. Uncle Roger, three years ago you controlled the weather to protect me. Three minutes ago you made Chambers back down — I don’t know how. And Chambers froze me in place and made weird allegations about me. So don’t give me chaff about knowing what to ask. I don’t have the vocabulary to ask you what I need to know. Just tell me something.”

Uncle Roger looked wistful and bemused all at once. “That’s what it’s all about, really. Your vocabulary. When you have the words to ask, my answers would make sense.”

“What do–”

“But you’re right. I do owe you something. I just hadn’t thought we would reach this impasse quite yet. Something else I can thank dear Mister Chambers for.”

“You expected something like this to happen?” I asked.

“Not at all. I expected that something would happen that would lead us to talk. I just thought I had more time.”

He rose. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Sure.”

“Good.” He walked into the kitchen and I followed. “What do you want to know.”

“What can you do?”

Uncle Roger laughed. “My Vitae are quite extensive. Explaining all of them would take some time. For instance, I am a poet, I am an Associate Professor of English, which means I’m capable of critical work and of teaching. I–”

“You know what I mean!”

“Do I? If you don’t know what you mean, I can’t possibly know what you mean, Chickadee.”

“But — God, talking to you can be so frustrating.”

“Nolo Contende, Karin. I can’t make this easy for you, I’m afraid. If you’re going to get answers you can understand, you’ll have to ask questions that are specific enough for me to answer exactly. Otherwise, I’ll have no way of knowing what you can understand and what you can’t. If you want answers — ask.”

“All right. Magic. You can work magic, right?”

“Yes.” The answer was quiet and unpretentious, but it still shook me. It was confirmation that the world wasn’t what I thought it was. “And so can you and so can everyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone can work magic. In ways, everyone does work magic. You have a double-dozen magical experiences a day. When you twist the laces of your shoes into a bow, you’re casting a very minor sort of spell. When a man ties a windsor knot in his tie, he’s casting a varient. Tying a bow tie is a more advanced varient. And the Boy Scouts teach ropecraft that is very advanced indeed.”

“But… that’s not magic.”

“What is it, then?”

“Tying knots? It’s a skill. Something anyone can learn.”

“Really? I was a Boy Scout once, but I doubt I could even identify a sheepshank. I never really got past the square knot and the bowline, and I’ve never used a bowline in my life. My father was somewhat disappointed in me.”

It was fun, and I was happy to agree. I searched the strip, and found the exact one I would want to use.

Namely, this one:

Which would be great except Rob Callahan grabbed it before I could, which means I couldn’t write that story. I’m tempted to so anyway.

This is the actual story I contributed. It’s based on the strip from April 10, 2005. And it’s probably a better story than I would have written for the self-portrait strip. It is indeed a short-short, under a thousand words long, so it won’t take you long to get through it.

I’d encourage folks to have a look both at Sinister Bedfellows and the anthology. It’s a nice little book with some nice vignettes and short stories in it, and it’s a nice hook that’s a little more interesting than a simple print collection of the strips might be. And mckenzee’s eye and viewpoint (not always the same thing) are very cool.

So. Here’s my entry, preceded by the strip. Please enjoy!

The cobblestones of the Old Port alleyway were cool on Ray’s face. He closed his eyes, and felt them growing damp with blood.

“Jesus, Ray,” he heard from somewhere above him. “What this time?”

Ray didn’t answer right away. He felt hands on either side of his shoulders grip and haul him out of the gutter. The blood from his nose and face had poured down on his white shirt. It looked sticky and thick. “I had a good night,” he snuffled. “Had the crowd in the palm of my hand.”

Tom shook his head. “You’re insane,” he said. “I’m sick to Christ of finding you in the back alleys of comedy clubs. What was it this time?”

“Gays in the military,” Shelly said on the other side. “I was in the audience. He got a heckler shout something about him being a queer, so he went into the full on homophobia bit. On country and western night.”

“Best audience for it,” Ray said, shaking them off. “They needed to hear it.”

“How many of them came after you this time?” Shelly demanded. “How many of them kicked the shit out of you this time?”

Ray tested a tooth with his tongue. Loose, but staying in his head. “I don’t really know,” he said. “Four. Maybe more. You sort of lose count in the bottom of the pile.”

“Because you thought it’d be funny?”

“Hey, I killed tonight,” Ray snapped. “You heard them, Shelly. They were howling.”

“Yeah — except for the people who hated it.”

Ray shook his head. “I need a drink.”

“You need a change of career. They’re going to kill you, one of these nights. And you know this isn’t the way to get a Comedy Central special.”

“Fuck Comedy Central.” Ray started around the building. Go back in the front door, get a drink at the bar.

“Yeah, that’s good for your rent. I’m sure your agent will love it too.”

“Fuck my rent. Fuck my agent. Fuck specials. Fuck albums. Fuck sitcoms and guest spots.” Ray shook his head again. “My ears are ringing.”

“We should go to the hospital,” Tom said. He was a little nervous.

“I just need a drink,” Ray said.

“You need a clue,” Shelly demanded. “Look at you. Look at you. You got your ass kicked again. And for what?”

“I killed tonight,” Ray said, whirling on her. Bringing them both up short. “Do you hear me? They were howling in there!”

“Except the ones who weren’t laughing,” Shelly shouted back.

“That’s because the audience was laughing at them! That’s my job, Shelly!”

“To make fun of people? To offend people?”

“Damn right.”

“Explain to me how this is a good thing!”

“Because no one else does it!” Ray slammed his fist against the wall, leaning back. “Small minded people have taken over, Shelly. Safe people have taken over. They control the media. They control the government. They control the corporations. They control everything. And they’re smug about it.” He breathed in, sharply. “I mean, who can call them on their bullshit? They own the courts. They own the legislature. They own the police. They own it all?”

“So you’re saying you can call them on it? That somehow you have the right–”

“I have the duty!” Ray rubbed the side of his face, feeling the blood there. “Damn it, Shelly. It’s the jester. The fool. The comic. We’re the only ones who get to say the Emperor has no clothes. We’re the only ones who get to mock them. To get everyone laughing at them. It’s our job.”

“You know, I don’t think Jerry Seinfeld was that worried about mocking naked people,” Tom said. “And he did okay for–”

Ray spat. “Fuck Jerry Seinfeld!” he shouted.

“Oh Christ, now you’ve done it.” Shelly muttered.

“It’s his fucking fault! ‘Observational humor.’ A show about nothing. His whole god damned Act was about nothing and he got rich. He made it safe to be inoffensive again. And his disciples are flocking into clubs complaining about fucking airplane food again! We are the children of Pryor, of Carlin, of Lenny fucking Bruce. We’re not supposed to be inoffensive!”

Shelly took his arm. “Ray? Raaaay. Shhh… shh shh shh. Calm down. We’ll get you that drink. A drink and a fresh shirt, and we’ll get you home and it’ll be fine.”

“I’m not going home,” Ray said.

“Ray, you’ve had your ass kicked. If you’re not able to go to the hospital, you need to go home.”

“I have a midnight show. It’s in my contract.”

“I think they’ll understand. You were just dumped in–”

“They don’t get to keep me off that stage,” Ray snapped. “I have a midnight show. It’s in my contract.”

“Jesus, Ray,” Tom said. “You go back out there, you’re just going to talk about this. What, you want them to kill you, next time?”

“Doesn’t matter if they do,” Ray said. “I’ll kill them first.” He looked at his friends. “Don’t you get it? Don’t you see?” He shook his head. “I go out there. Bloody shirt. Face like hamburger. Make their dates squirm. Maybe those guys are still sitting out there. Maybe they brag.” He leaned forward. “And I get them laughing. I get them all laughing. I make it all a big joke. Make it a joke on the small minded homophobic assholes who kicked the shit out of me.” He leaned back, and half-smiled. “It’ll kill. It’ll totally kill. And I’ll beat them.”

“And as an encore they’ll kill you,” Shelly said. She didn’t look angry any more. She looked scared.

“Maybe.” Ray grinned. “And then the papers will be full of it. And they’ll remember what I said. Now that will be funny.”

Shelly bit her lip.

Tom took a deep breath. “Okay. What now?”

“Now? I get a drink. And I wash my face. I have a show tonight.” Ray smiled a little more. “I’m on a roll.”

For the record, this is a thirteen thousand word story, set wholly in my Imperial Space universe, with a Hotchkiss/Leopold drive and transitions and the Orgalins who confederated with Concordia in the war that’s the centerpiece of Trigger Man.

Which is all fine and good, until you realize this story was written in 1991. Now, the setting made some changes between now and then. Transitions and N-Space and the H/L drive don’t work, in the current setting, quite like they do here. And the story itself isn’t the most polished I’ve produced — which implies that I’ve learned a thing or two about pacing and storytelling in the last sixteen years, which seems reasonable to me. I mean, this story is older than some of the regular readers of Banter Latte. That’s kind of humbling.

I’ve also learned a few things about science, engineering (small things, but things), and the willing sense of disbelief since then. And I’ve learned a ton of things about spelling since then. I swear to God, I did a complete round of spellchecking when I decided to put this story up, but I can’t possibly have found every last crime against nature and the dictionary, so please remember I was young and incapable, apparently, of reading what I just wrote.

Still, as an artifact of a time when the Imperial Space setting was still called (I swear to God, and embrace my shame) the “Terraesteller Empire,” and as a bit of my life given form once again, I’m happy enough to see this return to the light of day.

And, while I hope you take this story with six or seven grains of salt, I also hope you enjoy it.

Here’s Hephaestus Fallen.

*** *** *** ***

The two engineers were busy servicing and repairing the Hotchkiss/Leopold drive. The drive itself was over fifteen meters in height, but it was the small magnetic coils that surrounded the drive and produced the magnetic field that needed the most work. The magnetic field was necessary to prevent the superhot plasma from escaping the drive, and very possibly destroying the Hephaestus itself. Imperial Naval Subleftenant Gordon Erb was busy with the painstaking job of removing any defective magnalite coils and replacing them. The life or death of the ship could depend on a single six centimeter loop of wire.

Above, C.P.O. Godfrey was running diagnostic scans. These scans caused magnetic waves from one polarity extreme to the other to flow through the drive. Anomalies were detected, and the disturbing coils serviced. The entire process took quite a lot of time, but had to be done.

Godfrey even managed to stop grumbling about the lack of manpower for the job, much to Erb’s relief. Erb wasn’t any happier about it, but there was no one else to service the giant drive. What other engineers were left on the Hephaestus were busy attempting to repair or jury-rig the defensive, life support, and propulsion systems on the battlecruiser. The Engineering section had been hard hit, and many of the Engineers had been placed in cold storage, to be shipped to their homeworlds.

“Sir, I mark coil 662-21B! That seems to be the last!”

“Right, Chief. Hang on!” Erb hauled himself up the ladder to the middle gangway on the drive, and shuffled over twelve meters. Reaching panel 662, he pressed the codekey to the release module. A soft, persistent beep — about once a half-second — indicated the magnetic lock on the panel had released. He swung the panel up, locking it in place on the panel above it. He then looked at the rows and rows of silvery wire.

Erb could actually see the wire in question. It had bent out of kilter, and was no longer the perfect loop it had to be. It had bent into the wire on its left, and would obviously distort the magnetic envelope. Clucking to himself, Erb drew micro forceps out of his coverall and removed the offending wire. He slipped it into a pouch in the coveralls — magnalite could be and was recycled — and put in a fresh wire. To be safe, he also removed the wire the damaged one was bent into, and slipped its replacement into place. Satisfied, he brought the cover panel back down, and resealed it.

“How’s it look, Chief?” he shouted back to his assistant.

“Hang on, sir!” Godfrey ran the test program again. The different polarities of magnetic energy rippled in a kaleidoscope of color along the display. After thirty seconds, green lights rippled across the display.

“All clear, sir!” Godfrey yelled, obviously relieved.

Erb sighed a satisfied sigh. “Right! I’ll go report status to the Captain. You report to Subleftenant Giordano and see what she needs.

“Aye!” The C.P.O. descended the ladder from his console, and headed out the hatch to the fore part of the ship. Erb himself took more time, stopping to cajole coffee from the synthesizer. It tasted chalky — but with the damage to the ship’s essential systems, one didn’t complain about the poor quality of the reprocessing equipment. He sipped again, and began the long climb to the command deck.

Subleftenant Erb walked onto the auxiliary bridge of the I.B.C. Hephaestus. The bridge was a mess of cables and cobbled together equipment, which Erb’s trained eye sorted through, to check which systems were online. Sadly, painfully few of them were. Further, there was only a skeleton crew manning it: a Comm Officer running ship’s sensors, ship’s internal communications, and working on damaged computer programs; a Weapons Officer relaying reports and running diagnostic tests on the battle cruiser’s weapons systems, while half-shouting into a commlink, trying to get some of the Hephaestus‘s formidable arsenal on-line, and a Pilot, who was punching out various potential routes the ship could take in various situations, both in realspace and in n-space. The routes were academic — Hephaestus would have to get back her reaction drive before she could think about moving in realspace. Right now, they had a few navigational thrusters, which at full acceleration would have the net effect of nudging the ship to the side. The thrusters’ combat usefulness was negligible.

The pilot was also coordinating the entire ship’s repair efforts; she was the ship’s commanding officer.

Erb waited respectfully for Captain Bailey to finish her immediate work. He knew she was getting a flood of reports in all the time, and was working on piecing her first de facto command back together. A Leftenant Commander in rank, Annabelle Bailey had been ship’s first pilot when the Captain and First officer had both been killed-in-action, along with most of the bridge team. Suddenly realizing she was the ranking officer, she had ordered a fast barrage of missiles — which did little more than cover them as she punched in a precarious course and made emergency Transition into n-space. The Transition itself had been very rough, and nearly shattered the damaged ship, but the Hephaestus had nursed itself to an uninhabited star system, to jury-rig repairs and get back to Imperial Armed Forces Command.

Bailey turned in her chair. Her usually bright face was lined with worry marks, and her eyes had the bloodshot look of sleeplessness. “All right, Erb, what have you got for me.”

“Believe it or not, Captain, I have good news. The Hotchkiss/Leopold drive shows all green. As soon as the ship is clear for Transition, we can get out of here.”

“Oh!” Bailey said, an increasingly-rare smile lighting her face as she looked visibly relieved. “Wonderful, Subleftenant! That’s the first positive news I’ve heard today! How are our power stores coming?”

“Well, I don’t believe they’ve made much progress in restoring many more solar collectors — but even at twenty-three point four percent normal collection, we should have garnered at least fourteen percent power. A Transition to I.A.F.C. will take a minimum of thirty-one percent power, and it would drain the reserve at least thirty points, so we’ll probably want to wait and build up to forty or fifty percent, for a safety margin.”

“I concur. Good work, Subleftenant.”

Erb nodded.

“I want you to take over as position of Chief Engineer.”

Erb was brought short, startled. A few seconds later, his shock gave way to bewilderment. “But…ma’am, Giordano has the edge on me — she’s been in the service longer, and she’s been an officer longer!”

“I am aware of that, Erb. I have discussed this with Giordano, Godfrey, and Michaels. All three agree with my original thought — you should head the section.”

“But…why?”

Bailey sighed and looked irritated. “Because Giordano is more comfortable and better qualified to take a plan set down by a Chief and apply it to the individual sections. She’ll make a good deputy Chief. Beyond that — because I’ve told you to and in this mess of circuitry and crumpled bulkheads, I don’t have time to explain myself. To be honest, I don’t feel much like a captain — but that’s the job I have to do.

“So do your job and let me get back to mine. Report back to Engineering, and collect progress reports.”

“Aye, ma’am.” Ears burning, Erb left. Of course the captain didn’t have time to explain everything to him! It didn’t matter why — the job was his now.

Chief Engineer. That meant his primary mission in life right now was to get the Hephaestus working and to do his damnedest to keep her that way. Before, he simply did what he was told — delegating authority and responsibilities to others, but not in charge of the whole picture. Now he answered directly to the Captain, and all ship’s systems were his responsibility.

He didn’t like that.

He climbed down the ladders that lead to the middecks. He then walked the long decks to the Engineering section. He was slightly winded when he made it to the aft sections of the ship, and he sat down at one of the working consoles gladly. He resolved to put a team on repairing the internal lifts.

He then belayed that internal decision. The Hephaestus needed consistent air, heat, power, and hopefully even movement. She did not need to make her crew comfortable. He punched the ship’s status onto the console’s central display, cursing at the delays in the overtaxed computer core.

As the schematic finally came up, both of the other displays came to life. Reports from the various engineering teams were coming in, now. Obviously, the Captain had appraised the team heads of the new situation. Erb swallowed hard. It was time to go to work.

The Orgalin Confederation existed on the fringe of Imperial Space. While they were not at an official state of war with the Empire, they were certainly not in a state of peace. Every year, a number of incidents occurred…every year, the Empire repelled the forces and occasionally struck precautionary blows back.

This year, the Hephaestus was one of the incidents.

The Imperial Battle Cruiser Hephaestus was one of the Imperial Navy’s top-of-the-line ships. The Hephaestus possessed a formidable number of weapons from L-cannon through Particle Accelerators, and could single-handedly repel any number of attacks.

However, the Orgalins attacked by surprise, while the Hephaestus was on maneuvers near Excalibur. The attacking force — consisting of five frigates led by a Light Cruiser — was obviously on some kind of military exercise against Excalibur, and didn’t expect anything more than planetary defenses. In this way, when the attackers came out of n-space, both the hunters and the prey were caught by surprise.

The Orgalins, having entered the system prepared for battle, recovered first and opened fire on the Hephaestus. Plasma bolts had slammed into the Battlecrusier, causing substantial damage to the ship before it could in any way fight back.

Erb had been in the foremost compartment of engineering when the attack began. Thus, he missed the hit which killed more than half the ship’s engineers, including Chief Engineer Sai. When he scrambled back, he was immediately pressed into emergency damage control procedures. He spent the entire engagement giving orders to his subordinates, while fire and radiation leaked in from all sides.

Therefore, he wasn’t aware of Captain Bankert’s brave counterattack. He certainly wasn’t aware that the Hephaestus had destroyed one of the frigates and had seriously damaged another before the bridge was hit. All he had been aware of was the desperate demands for power from the bridge, the sudden loss of the primary reactor, the fallback onto the battery reserve, and the sudden lurch of the ship into Transition — a rough Transition indeed. Erb had been thrown twenty feet and slammed into a bulkhead, while the ship’s very superstructure buckled in many places.

Erb had been knocked unconscious — though in that he was actually more fortunate than many. There had been another series of casualties in the battle and in the Transition.

The Hephaestus was on reserve power, and was badly damaged. there was no possible way to maintain an n-space presence long enough to make it to another Imperial world. The best they could do was Star System N-443-5477-2b, a blue star system with no planets, just the debris that surrounds any young star. There it floated — its solar collection units attempting to recharge the reserve power, while its crew tried desperately to put the ship back together.

Out of a crew of six hundred and twelve, ninety-eight people were still alive. The engineering section had dropped from two hundred and six to thirty-four. Thirty-four men that Gordon Erb was now in charge of.

He scanned through the reports. Life Support, though still damaged, definitely worked now, providing air and heat to all decks. The commissary was undamaged but almost completely unstaffed — a science specialist whose lab was obliterated was manning it, keeping the system running. The protein rich soy that was processed into food for the ship was in ample supply, even if the food was bad. No one complained. Four men in Outgear had managed to put two more Solar Collectors online, bringing collection units to thirty four point six percent normal. Power was at fifteen point four, and three forward firing L-cannons had been put back on-line.

The bad news was: the ship’s sophisticated sensor array was so much junk; the main power reactor was so hopelessly damaged, its remains had been salvaged in hopes of getting one of the two secondary reactors online; the duralite superstructure was badly damaged, both from the battle and the bad Transition into n-space; almost all of the powerful ship-to-ship weapons were either damaged or had no control systems to speak of (one of the main fire control computers had been hit by the electromagnetic fringe surrounding a plasma bolt); and the few engineers left were overworked to the point of exhaustion.

That of course didn’t even count the fact that any minute now, an Orgalin ship or two, following up on the (hopefully failed) attack on Excalibur, might pop out of n-space to finish off the Hephaestus. After all, any navigational computer could tell that Star System N-443-5477-2b was the only thing the damaged Hephaestus could have possibly reached on their last heading.

Erb thought for a while. If an Orgalin should appear, limited mobility, power, and only a few lasers would never hold it off. However, there was just so much thirty-odd men could do, no matter who might be showing up. And, with no replacement parts, there was no way to get several of the ship’s systems even marginally operational again. If they wanted to survive, they would have to get the ship ready for a long haul to an Imperial world — I.A.F.C., preferably, but “any old port,” as the ancient saying went.

All right, then. Priority had to go to preparing the ship for n-space. Up until that moment, the captain had been repairing anything and everything, simply because she wasn’t an engineer and didn’t have time to make more than general priorities. Well, now it was his job, and he was going to prepare the ship to escape.

He pressed the comm unit and entered in the code for Subleftenant Giordano. After the computer delay, Giordano’s somewhat scrambled voice came through.

“Yes sir?”

“Sir? This must be an emergency, Three-card! No matter what the jury-rigged Chain of Command says, call me Gordo, okay?”

“Whatever, Gordo. Look, is this official or a social call? I don’t have time for it if you don’t have orders for me.”

“You’re in luck, Three-card. Pull people off anything that they may be doing. Get them onto the superstructure and any defensive screens we might still have. Shut down Life Support to any deck that isn’t expressly being used. If you can arrange to have the ladders we need pressurized and heated, great. If not, get our crowd into Outgear. Press any people who don’t have specific jobs elsewhere on the ship into Engineering. If they complain, tell ‘em to take it up with me. We’ve all been in shock, but we don’t have time to sit and do nothing. Got all that?”

“Think so. You really want us off weapons?”

“You have a problem with that?” Erb shuddered. Was he already screwing up?

“No way — anything of a higher grade than L-cannon is a waste of time and of power. But Ensign Ibanz won’t like it one bit. He’s been yelling at us to get the high grade stuff, like plasma cannon, back on-line.”

“Forget that — it’s too much of a waste of power.”

“Yeah, but Ibanz is X.O. He could get antsy.”

“Let him. If he wants those power sieves on-line, let’m do it himself. The Hephaestus won’t be fighting any more battles.”

“Aye aye, sir!” Giordano sounded plainly relieved, even if her ‘aye aye’ had a touch of sarcasm to it.

“So get to work on that superstructure. It’ll take a miracle to get it capable of surviving Transition, but its that or take up some serious religion, cause we won’t be here long.”

“Religion might be a good idea anyway. See ya!” The circuit cleared.

Orders to subordinates didn’t have to apply to commanders. While the rest of the crews started work on Erb’s orders, Erb himself pulled on Outgear and went to work on the portside secondary reactor. He figured that if even one of the auxiliary power systems could be put online, it would be an amazing boost. The liquid methane that the ship used as fuel was still in plentiful supply — but without a reactor to use it, it was nothing more than ballast. The official opinions of Giordano, Godfrey, and he himself were that all three units were not worth trying to save. Ensign Michaels thought the portside was possible to get running on a temporary basis, but that it wasn’t feasible with the supplies they had on hand.

There was no doubt the reactor would be an incredible boost, so he went to work on it. Maybe there was something salvageable on it. Besides, he wanted to let Giordano handle setting up the work details and program, rather than step in and make a mess out of everything they had already done. In an hour or two, he would head to the work sites, find out what was going on, and go where he was most needed.

After a while, his suit radio bleeped for attention. He worked the chin switch. The circuit connected instantly, owing to the Outgear’s independent processor.

“Erb, this is Ibanz. What the Hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Actually, sir, I’m trying to reestablish ship’s power.” Erb didn’t need this. Between his exhaustion and the radiation he had been exposed to during the battle, he felt a thousand years old already.

“Why did you countermand my orders to get the weapons back on-line?”

Erb suppressed a curse. Ibanz was a royal pain. He had been a Starman First Class when he was selected for Officer’s Training — Lord only knew how he had survived it! He was one of those officers who spent more time polishing the rank insignia on his uniform than he did working with his men. But, he was the only surviving Line Officer besides Bailey, and therefore had to be Executive Officer (as well as Weapons Officer). “Because, sir, there would be no way to restore sufficient fighting capacity to even successfully engage a pirate raider. Even if we could get one of the Plasma cannon or Fusion beams on-line, we would need a reserve of twenty percent power — more than we have now, I should mention — just to fire it. Because of this–”

“That’s enough. If we get attacked, we’re sitting ducks!”

“Yes sir, we are. And if every vacbreather on this ship did nothing but weapons repair for a week and a half, we still would be. The Hephaestus is incapable of fighting, and will not become capable without a layover of several months. This is assuming that I.N.C. doesn’t decide to decommission her.” What was Ibanz’s problem? Even he should understand the kind of shape they were in.

“That’s enough of that kind of talk, Mister! You will reassign men to the weapons systems immediately!”

“No sir, I will not. If the captain orders me to, I will under protest, but I would remind the Executive Officer–”

The communications circuit cut off loudly. Erb smiled. He rather enjoyed doing that. There was little enough to enjoy, these days.

“Hey! You in the tin can!”

Erb turned around — a considerable feat in Outgear. A man in the tans of an Imperial Marine was standing nearby. Despite his fatigue, Erb grinned at him and waved.

“Whaddya want, Drew?”

“Giordano sent me down to you — in case you needed an extremely unskilled pair of hands, or someone to get you coffee. Want coffee? Before my commission I was an orderly to a colonel — I’m really good at cajoling reasonable pseudocoffee out of balky processors.”

“I’d love coffee. Cream, if you can convince it that cream doesn’t taste like motor oil.”

“Hey, convincing’s my specialty. It was my service branch as a Corporal.” Force Commander Drew Paradis turned and cheerfully began to punch buttons on the reprocesser. Drew had been the commander of the Imperial Marine contingent on board, before the attack. He was on his way to a staff meeting when the attack hit. By the time he had made it back to his men, the compartment they had been in had been sealed off due to depressurization. He took the loss of his command as well as could be expected, and had spent the rest of his time trying to bolster the spirits of other crew members.

Still, it was odd giving orders to an officer with the equivalent rank of a Leftenant Commander in the Navy.

A few minutes later, garbed in Outgear, Drew brought the coffee over. He had placed it in a zero gee tube, designed to lock directly into the Outgear’s modular system. Erb locked it in, and sipped at it.

“Amazing — it tastes like a distant relative of coffee!”

“Yeah, it’s a gift. Why are we in Outgear? This area hot?”

“Well, it shouldn’t be, but when you’re working with a reactor, better safe than day-glow.”

“Does this thing use fission?”

“No, clean fusion and matter/antimatter. But emergency antimatter decomposition and dispersal can give off radiation.”

“Oh. Any hope of fixing it?”

Erb sighed. “No, but don’t tell it that, okay?” He bent back over the unit, removing mangled parts. He placed these parts off to one side, to be sorted through later. Some of them could probably be repaired or salvaged for new parts. Others were totally destroyed — the plasma charge had sent a highly magnetized stream of ions through all the power plants. Only the magnalite surrounding the Hotchkiss/Leopold drive — which warped the ions around, not in, the core — protected the unit that permitted them interstellar travel.

Enlisting Paradis as a gopher and heavy lifter, Erb managed to clear most of the damaged parts out of the portside reactor.

What was left was perhaps a tenth of a complete reactor. “Looks pretty small, doesn’t it?” Erb said, slightly sarcastically.

“Nah, she’s a little beat up, but she’ll put out twice the output of any other reactor in her class! Really! Just sign the dotted line and pay me, oh, £200,000 for her and I will personally guarantee service for up to five years…unless you try and use her.”

“You should sell real estate.”

“Nah, Hellava lot more fun going in with a platoon and taking it. What now, chief?”

“Now we give up this ridiculous project and go help the others shore up the superstructure.”

Mess call was almost depressing. A room designed to hold two hundred now held the entire ship’s compliment, with over half the hall to spare. People looked tired, even washed out.

Erb had been running high — trying to let the near-impossible task of repairing the Hephaestus occupy all his thoughts, so that he didn’t have to think of the hundreds of people he’d never bump into in the hall. But sitting, eating reprocessed soy disguised poorly as ham he could not escape the ghosts of messhall mates. He briefly remembered lunchtime sing-alongs Captain Bankert had led. It was a fun diversion from ship’s routine. His overall condition wasn’t helped by a mild nausea — he had had his daily antiradiation treatments just before eating. The combinations made his appetite less than overwhelming.

The chair next to his was abruptly pulled out, and the Captain sat next to him. “I’m not intruding, am I?”

Startled, Erb tried to find his tongue. “Uh — no, of course not, Captain.”

“Just for the moment, Gordo, try not to call me that, all right? I feel outclassed.”

“No problem, Ma’am. I know just how you feel.”

“I’m sure. How’s Paradis as scrub engineer?”

“He’s stronger than anyone else in my section and you only have to show him twice, so I’d say he’s pretty good. He’s certainly better than the scientists — most of them know the theory three times better than any of us, but can barely burn a steady line with a torch. What’s more, they have a tendency to argue — their ideas are okay, but they don’t factor in time, equipment, manpower or the needs of the rest of the ship.” Erb shoved a forkful of ‘peas’ into his mouth.

“Well, you’re several up on me. I keep almost calling a staff meeting, only to remember I have no staff to speak of.” She sipped a light green liquid, wincing. “Gordo, Ibanz says you’re giving him trouble.”

“Damn right I am, ‘Belle. You put me in charge of Engineering, so I’ve put priority on power systems and the superstructure. He’s of the opinion we need weapons systems to fight off attackers.”

“That makes some sense.”

“Oh yes. It makes perfect sense. It would also make perfect sense that this star system have an Imperial Naval Base with shipyard, but that isn’t going to happen, is it? We have no conduits or control systems, nor do we have any means of getting them. If we managed, say, to get a Plasma Cannon on line, it’d wipe out all of our accumulated power in one shot. The only way we can win a battle right now is to run like Hell, but unless we can keep the ship from being crushed, even that isn’t an option.” He wiped his eyes, tiredly.

“I see. How long?”

Erb wiped his eyes. “Three days, maybe. If it’s possible at all.”

“Three days. Damn — that may be too long.”

“Agreed.” Erb ate a few more bites, conscious of the quiet between the two of them.

Bailey broke the silence, finally. “I’ve been preprogramming a number of Transition vectors, and with a little luck, we’ll have the power to be ready for one of them. Then, when it’s safe, we can just go straight into Transition.”

“We won’t be able to maneuver.”

“No problem. These vectors are all along our drift path. The problem with that is we have only limited windows to play with, assuming our power ratios allow us to use them.”

“No problem,” Erb said, without great enthusiasm, “within the next forty hours, we should build our way to thirty-five percent. By the time the superstructure is ready, we’ll have fifty percent, easily.”

“You seem pretty washed out. How’s decontamination going.”

“A lot of needles and less than pleasant attentions by a nurse who’s overworked as he’s the last medical specialist on board.” Erb drank the rest of the glop served as ‘coffee’. “How you taking it?”

“Well, I didn’t take much radiation. I’m just overtired. Not to mention nightmares.”

“Yeah. Well, I have to check the progress on shoring up Alpha Four hull, and then I’m going to catch some sleep.” Erb pushed his chair back and rose. Just saying the word ‘sleep’ made him want to curl up on the deck and snooze, but he knew he had work to do.

“Erb.”

“Mm?” Erb closed his eyes against the harsh photorch light being shined on him. It had taken him a while to get to sleep in the unfamiliar bed — his own bunkroom had been rendered uninhabitable during the attack. He didn’t really mind, as the ghosts who would also have slept in that room would have made it unbearable.

“Erb! Wake up!” Paradis sounded upset.

“Wha? Drew? What the Hell are you doing here?” Irritation flushed through Erb. He needed this sleep desperately, if he was going to be any good at all.

“Shut up and answer me, without asking questions of your own. How secure are the power and control feeds for Gamma-two deck’s life support?”

“Huh? Drew, what are–”

“Answer me!” The Marine’s face was obscured by the photorch shining in Erb’s face, but Erb imagined it was contorted in anger. All of a sudden, Erb was afraid of the Marine.

“They’re highly secure. We even have backups there, as quite a bit of the crew sleeps on that deck. You know, sleep, what I was trying to do?” Erb’s annoyance was mostly bravado at this point. Had Paradis cracked? Could a radiation-sick engineer survive against an Imperial Marine, even long enough to get help?

“If it failed, would it fail in just a few rooms, or on the entire deck?”

“What? The deck. Internal climate controls are hardwired — they can’t disrupt. Even if they did, they’d set off an alarm in the room, which the damage to the ship wouldn’t affect.”

“There’s no way a single room’s life support can quit?”

“No. The systems designed to prevent it — even now.” Erb was downright scared now, and not of the Marine. “Drew, why are you asking me this?”

“The Captain’s dead. The life support in her room failed, and she suffocated in carbon dioxide.”

Erb felt cold. “What? Dead?”

“Yes. Is it possible it was an accident?”

Erb thought long and hard. Possible? Of course. No system was perfect. But all of the sensors failed? All of the backups failed? And in only one room?

“No. It’s not possible.”

“Well then.” Drew snapped off the photorch, letting the inky darkness swallow them. “We have a murderer on board.”

It didn’t take long to find the sabotage. Paradis and Erb had worked their way to the Computer Core, where Giordano had been finishing up diagnostics. The three of them checked the log of the Life Support computers. Commands had been sent specifically shutting the flow of oxygen into room Gamma two hundred and one off. Annabelle Bailey had been murdered.

The list of suspects numbered exactly one.

“I don’t understand,” Giordano said. All the animation was gone from her face. “Doesn’t Ibanz realize we’d catch him? Hell, his ID’s logged in this.”

“I don’t think he’s that connected to reality,” Paradis answered, speaking low and evenly. The easy-going Marine’s entire body was tense, like he might explode at any second.

“So what now? Arrest him for mutiny?” Giordano didn’t sound very convincing.

“Right now?” Erb asked. The fatigue and illness brought on by radiation and overwork had given way to a cold, hard lump in the pit of his stomach. “Right now, I do what I should have done when I discovered I was Chief Engineer. I lock the Life Support computer with a personal passcode.” He turned to the computer core, and started typing. “I’ll let you two and Michaels know what it is. If anyone else tries to change things, they’ll be locked out.”

“All right, Gordo. What then?”

“Then? I don’t know. Ibanz is the Captain.”

“What?” Paradis was outraged. “He’s a murderer!”

“He’s the only line officer still alive.”

“So what! You don’t put a psychopath in command!”

“Rome did.”

Paradis set his mouth into a hard, cruel line. “This isn’t Rome.”

Erb rubbed his forehead. His head was throbbing. “I know. There are ninety-eight people on board the Hephaestus. All they know is the Captain’s dead, which makes the Executive Officer Captain. If we put Ibanz out of command, that’s mutiny.”

“Mutiny can sometimes be a good thing.” Giordano’s voice sounded distant, like a ghost’s. Her own radiation sickness, though not as severe as Erb’s, had left her ill prepared for yet another shock.

“We’re also ignoring the fact that Ibanz himself is a mutineer,” Paradis said, less passionately. Bringing up mutiny brought the Marine’s strict training back to the forefront.

“Yeah. He’s also the only Astrogater left.” Giordano sounded bitter.

Erb scratched his nose. “We don’t need an Astrogator. The captain preprogrammed a bunch of Transition vectors. As soon as we get the superstructure ready and some power in the reserve, we can go.”

“Yeah, if Captain Ibanz lets us work on the superstructure.”

“Look, right now we need legitimate authority for people to follow. Maybe the shock of command will bring Ibanz to his senses.”

“Give me a break,” Paradis said, his anger cool and controlled. “Erb, forget about the chain of command and the Imperial Codex of Military Justice and Regulation. Think about the ninety-seven people on board.” Paradis let that hang, and let Erb think about the ninety-eighth crew member.

“I am,” he said, after a minute. “I think anarchy would see them all dead before the Orgs ever show up.”

There was another quiet pause.

“Well,” said Paradis. “Let’s find out.”

The command deck was mostly deserted. The communications officer — Subleftenant Phillips — was still at his post on the auxiliary bridge. Without a word, he gestured to the cubical that served as Flag Office, then went — rather listlessly — back to work.

“I’d…better go to my section,” Giordano said. “There may have been…um….new orders.”

Erb nodded, and she went. He and Paradis stepped into the Flag Office.

Ibanz was there. He had a command pin affixed to his deep blue uniform coat, and looked remarkably well-groomed. The hours of toil that had been etched into his face the day before were replaced with an almost unnatural calm.

“Ah, Leftenant. Good to see you. And you too, Force Commander, of course.”

“Er, Subleftenant, sir.”

“Brevet Leftenant, of course. By God, Erb, you’ve been pushing against the wall for two days, now. What’s more, you’ve taken your new responsibilities and run with them. If I have any say about it, a promotion in gold will accompany our return to dock.”

Erb felt unreal. “Uh, thank you, sir.”

“Not at all. I’ve taken the liberty of sending a few orders through Michaels. Not to step on your toes, of course. No, I’ll keep out of your bailiwick. But you were asleep, so I thought it best to speak to your relief.”

“Of course, sir.” Erb looked at Paradis, feeling helpless. The Marine’s anger had been replaced by confusion.

“He’s got three teams on the Plasma Guns. They’re really the only punch we’ll be able to get, I’m sure. After all, the Hephaestus has seen better days. But of course I don’t need to tell the Engineer that.”

“No, of course not, sir. Three teams?” Michaels would have had to pull most of the real engineers off the superstructure, to do the more exacting weapons work. That would leave the remaining crewmembers without direction.

“Why, yes. Do you have a better plan?” Ibanz leaned forward, looking interested. Not disturbed, per se, but attentive.

“Um. Well, sir…I had a priority on superstructure before–”

“Yes, but the ship’s mission is a military one. I thought it best to be ready to carry that out.”

Erb felt lost. Then, a idea struck him. “Yes, but sir! Our superstructure can’t take more than, oh, two hits right now without crumpling. We couldn’t possibly survive a fight without shoring it up. We wouldn’t have time to fire.”

Ibanz folded his hands together and leaned his elbow on his desk. He rested his chin on his hands, with his index fingers extended. He thought for a few seconds.

“That’s your considered opinion?”

“Yes.”

Ibanz frowned, and looked pointedly at Erb. It took Erb a moment to read the mild irritation’s cause. He spoke quickly. “Yes, Captain.”

As quickly as the irritation had come, it cleared, and Ibanz grinned. “Well then, put some people back on it. I know you understand the ship’s needs.”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Good. You know Captain Bankert would have been proud of this ship.”

“Yes sir.”

“Captain Bailey too. God rest her soul.” Ibanz looked genuinely mournful, though he didn’t lose his decorum. Erb looked at Paradis.

Paradis didn’t look like he knew any answers either.

“Still, we’ll have time to mourn when our mission’s done.” He rose from his seat and stepped over. Erb let Ibanz shake his hand. “Go to it, son,” he said, smiling in an encouraging way. He then shook Paradis’ hand and showed them out.

The two stood, staring at the closed door. Erb glanced at the bridge. It was still destroyed, all right. In the closed room, it had all seemed too unreal. Phillips was ignoring them, as he continued to work. Obviously, the degeneration of morale had begun.

Neither man spoke until they got into the hall. “Drew,” Erb said, almost whispering.

“Yeah?”

“Do you check me on what just happened?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think he remembers killing Bailey.”

“Yeah.” Paradis was barely responding.

“Damn it, Drew!” Erb shouted, grabbing the Marine shoulder and pushing him into the bulkhead. “Don’t just say yeah! What’s going on?”

“Oh, I thought that was obvious.” Paradis looked oddly calm, though his eyes burned into Erb’s. “Ibanz has gone totally insane.”

The next eight hours proved Paradis more than correct. Where the ship was in grave danger before, fear and need had inspired great effort. Captain Bailey had helped that. Erb knew that Captain Ibanz’s authority was empty — he was a mutineer and a murderer. But the crew didn’t know that. Both Paradis and Giordano eventually had agreed with Erb’s thought that only the illusion of the chain of command would keep the Hephaestus from falling into despair and anarchy.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way at all.

With the new Captain’s go ahead, Erb was able to pull most of the real engineers off of weapons. He knew they were too valuable in keeping the superstructure repair going smoothly. He left Ensign Michaels in charge of the token Plasma Cannon refit, along with several of the scientists. Erb’s thought was the science specialists would be happier working in the more esoteric fields anyway. Morale quickly picked back up, especially after Erb reinforced his orders on Outgear (so no one else would be a victim of ‘failed life support,’ which worried many people). The work kept the crew’s mind off of the tragedies that had befallen them, especially the most recent.

That is, until 13:05.

Phillips patched in an ‘all-hands’ circuit. “Mess call! All crewmen are to report to the Beta Mess Hall for lunch, by Captain’s order.” Phillips still sounded lifeless.

Erb patched in a comm circuit. “Hey, Phillips,” he said. “You don’t mean everybody, right? I mean, we’re still going to stagger things to keep the construction going.”

“The Captain says everyone. He says that while normally there would be a skeleton crew standing watch, given the circumstances he doesn’t feel it necessary.”

“That’s crazy! Put me through to him!”

“The Captain has orders not to be disturbed.” Phillip’s near monotone was chilling. He sounded drugged.

Erb looked around himself. The crew he was with — busy welding support ribs and columns up — was already sort of dispersing, and shutting down equipment.

“Hey,” he shouted, “you guys feel you can take off whenever you want? Come on now!”

There were murmured apologies, and the crewmen snapped to. Confident the Outgear would hide his expression, Erb smiled grimly. He still had their respect. “All right then. helmets and gauntlets off — we’ll eat in the rest of the gear. It’ll keep us from smelling what’s under the metal suits.” There was a chuckle at that. “Dismissed!”

He heard Giordano and Michaels coordinate their teams over the comm, and the remaining petty officers reinforcing it. Good enough. If he worked hard enough, no matter how crazy their Captain was the crew would be content.

They marched off to the mess hall. The normal groups sat down together, and a low murmur filled the room. Erb forgot what precise order he had given the processor by the time he sat down — the food on the plate certainly didn’t offer any clues. Rather than sitting alone, he sat at the end of one of the fuller tables. He felt he might be more useful if it became necessary.

The captain walked in. No, he sauntered in. Ibanz still had that dress parade attitude, coupled with an easygoing-but-military manner he had to get from watching old Officer Among the Stars episodes. He looked fresh, and unhurried.

He looked mildly surprised when nobody got to their feet, but he let it go. Erb could only imagine he was emulating Captain Bankert’s habits. He could almost here the Captain speak. “For God’s sake! All that jumping around spoils my appetite, much less yours!”

The pain of the Captain’s loss struck home, then. It struck in a way Erb had been too numb to feel. He stared at his food…most of it gray — that must be a beet or something….

Erb’s head snapped up. Panic or something closely related beat in his heart as he looked frantically around the room. Everywhere, there were shock-filled faces, mournful expressions, with more than a little surliness. Just by his mannerisms, Ibanz had brought the entire crew face-to-face with their loss. Erb thought frantically for a way to save it — start making afternoon work plans or something….

And then Ibanz started circulating through the room, talking to people. Erb realized it didn’t matter where he had sat. He was powerless to do anything. Ibanz was still living in his Captain’s Fantasy — that unnerving parody of normal ship’s routine. “‘Afternoon Delarosa. Enjoying your lunch? Heard from home lately?” And P.O. Delarosa would stare, giving odd responses and trying to understand his C.O.’s endeavors. Then he was with Corbin — “Corbin, how are things going? Good, good. I trust you’re keeping up your fencing class? No? Hm. Well, I certainly hope you’ll reconsider. There’s a lot of interest, I believe. A lot of interest indeed….”

Erb wasn’t sure when Paradis had taken to following the Captain around, but there he was. Three steps away and standing ramrod straight, making the Captain’s ravings look like a weird ceremony. Erb was too…fascinated to pay much attention. Fascinated and horrified. When the two started walking towards him, the fear crawled out of his stomach and down his limbs in waves.

“Ah, Leftenant. How are the projects going?”

“Um…well, sir. Well. The power reserves are up to twenty-eight point six, the last time I checked. Once the superstructure is shored up, um, we’ll be ready for Transition…if that’s what the Captain wishes.” He didn’t want to convince Ibanz to not consider Transition. It was like walking a tightrope.

“Transition? Mm. Yes. Captain Bailey had a number of preprogrammed Transition vectors, I noticed. Good windows of opportunity, eh?”

“Oh…yes Captain.” Erb felt hope flare up.

“Yes, well, keep up the good work, Leftenant.” He moved on. Paradis started to move, but Erb waved him over.

Before he could speak to the Marine, though, the Captain shouted to the crew. “Lads,” he said, the way Captain Bankert always had. “Isn’t the lunchtime mess our singing time?”

No. He couldn’t. Erb felt all his hopes deflate. This could be the last straw for the crew.

Ibanz started to sing No More Port Life for Me, an old favorite. If he noticed he was the only one singing, he didn’t let on. Erb looked around, at all the people hearing a full room sing along with Captain Bankert. He saw the people listen to ghosts.

S.F.C. Belson was the first to start crying. He started with slightly shaking shoulders, but soon gave great, heaving sobs into his processed food. The tears and grief flooded through the room like wildfire. Other crewmen scowled, and looked ready to fight. Angered whispers were picking up speed.

“Drew,” Erb urgently prison whispered, “what the Hell are you doing with him?”

Paradis spoke in a carefully neutral voice. Not a dead voice, like Phillips, but a neutral one. “The Captain felt it a good idea for the two commanding officers to be seen together, as a sign of solidarity.”

“What? You’re the only Marine left!” The moment he said it, Erb regretted his words. Paradis had never mentioned the pain he had felt. “Oh, God, I’m sorry–”

“Forget it.” Paradis sounded like himself again, though. “Look, he wants me on the bridge — staff meeting type stuff. You’d better be ready to be called, too.”

“I keep almost calling a staff meeting, only to remember I have no staff to speak of.” Erb’s personal pain resurged, but he suppressed it. “Right. Do you think he’ll go with Transition?”

“I don’t know. I hope so. Let’s be ready for it.”

The work went well enough. Erb discovered that his need to hold ship’s morale together had actually increased the speed that they did things. He also directed Michaels to deliberately stretch out the repair and reactivation of the Plasma Cannons, to forestall any suspicions. The meal-time travesties continued, as did the Captain’s walk-through inspections of the work. Erb wasn’t sure if Ibanz’s apparent delusions were bothering people nearly so much as his unwillingness to pitch in. He didn’t seem like he cared. He did keep Paradis on the bridge, but Drew took the opportunity to keep in contact with Erb, and keep him appraised.

Other than that, Erb tried to keep people’s minds off of the Captain, and onto their work. It only sort of worked. At his daily antiradiation treatment, that same horrible day, he sat in his normal queue, waiting for the nurse to reach him.

Porter, a senior petty officer, was ahead of Erb in line, as always. He wasn’t joking, today. Instead, his pale skin seemed even worse than before, and his bloodshot eyes looked sunken into his head. “Hey, Gordo,” he said, sullenly.

Erb nodded hello, and sat in one of the chairs. He was chilly, today. He wondered if the illness was spreading or if the air conditioning were just on too high. “Gordo,” Porter said, “I thought we were off weapons.”

Erb shrugged. “So did I.”

“Ibanz, huh.” Porter said the Captain’s name like a curse.

Erb shrugged again. He was so tired, he wasn’t sure he could keep up the facade.

“There’s a rumor he killed Bailey. I believe it. The skin’s cracked.”

“Don’t call the Captain a skin,” another Petty Officer, Thompson, said. Thompson herself sounded bitter, though.

“I’ll call him what I damn well please!” Porter’s anger flashed to the surface, like a bullet from a gun. “It’s not like he’s gonna notice.”

“Porter!” C.P.O. Godfrey snapped, just coming in to get in line. Erb felt vague relief at the Chief’s presence, though he was still pretty numb. “Lose the attitude!”

“Lose the attitude? Christ almighty, Chief! We’re all gonna die out here and you want me to lose my attitude?!”

“Hey!” Erb’s lethargy burned off, as grief and outrage forced through his fatigue. He whirled on Porter and stood, giving the impression of strength he didn’t really have. “You listen to me, Porter! We’re not going to die! We’re going to survive and get home, if I have to kill you to do it!”

“What?” Porter jumped to his feet, fists up. He swayed, a bit unsteady, and slumped back down, breaking into a cold sweat.

Erb’s anger drained from him, leaving him empty. “Porter, come on. You all right?”

Porter laughed mirthlessly. “Oh yeah, sir. I’m peachy. I can’t even punch you out, I’m so tired.”

“Yeah, well, thank God for that.” Erb slumped back down too.

“Gordo, you won’t have to kill me to get us home, promise.”

“That’s better,” Godfrey said. “We need to stick together, especially now.”

“You mean, now that Bailey’s dead and Ibanz is messed in the brain?” Porter’s sarcasm was dulled by fatigue.

“Yeah, I mean that,” said Godfrey. Erb was too used to fear to be chilled, when he realized the C.P.O. did mean it.

They were going to make it.

It was twenty-six hours after Bailey’s death when Erb realized both the superstructure and the power stores would be ready for the first preprogrammed Transition vector. Oh, the power would be cutting it close — it looked like they would be at thirty-five point six for it. It would be enough, though, if he could convince the Captain to get them into Transition. If they survived the Transition itself, they’d be home free!

Well, they’d be home free if the Orgs didn’t show up first. It was sheerest luck a follow-up hadn’t occurred. Perhaps they were still tied up at Excalibur.

Erb called Giordano on the comm. “Three-Card, it looks good. I’m going to go hammer the Captain. You get people into position and secured. In thirty-seven minutes, with a little luck, we’ll be in n-space heading for Clarke.”

“If Ibanz lets us.”

“Right. I’ll see what I can do.” Erb killed the comm, and headed up the ladders for the Bridge.

It looked pretty much the same. Phillips, still on (or over) edge, was at his post, relaying communications lethargically. The Captain, rather than being in the cubicle, was sitting in the command chair — a ridiculously military figure among wreckage. Paradis was standing behind him, and was giving glib responses.

“Chief Engineer Erb reporting, sir,” Erb said, snapping a salute. Saluting while underway was against regulations, but it seemed to please the Captain.

“Ah yes. Erb. Tell me, Leftenant, what’s the ship’s status?”

“Power stores are thirty-five point five, and will be thirty-five point six by the first Transition window.”

“Transition…?”

“Yes sir,” said Paradis. Paradis sounded military, but his face betrayed his contempt. “Transition for Clarke system, six n-space days. As we were discussing before, standard Imperial Navy procedure, in the event of an underway change of command, is to report to the nearest Imperial Naval Base.”

“Oh yes. Yes. As I recall, Captain Bailey seemed to be flouting that regulation. Still, I suppose we can’t know her motivations.”

Phillips turned and glared at Ibanz, his eyes burning with hatred. The sudden change startled Erb. Did Phillips know? He was a computer operator — the evidence was still there.

“Uh, yes sir. So, shall we, um, prepare for Transition?”

“Didn’t I just order that? Really, Erb, you must keep my orders straight, I won’t be repeating myself for your benefit.” Ibanz sounded mildly chiding.

“Uh, yes sir, sorry sir.” Erb pushed over to the pilot’s station. “Phillips,” he said urgently, “contact the crew, have the engineers monitor the Hotchkiss/Leopold drive, and get everyone else secured for Transition.”

Phillips didn’t respond. Erb leaned over and poked him, hard, and slipped back into his seat. “All right, already,” Phillips mumbled, and started working controls.

Erb punched up the navigation menu and brought up the preprogrammed vector. He loaded it into the navigational computer, and cursed as it dragged on. Finally, the red telltale flashed green. The ‘Time to Window’ indicator read 22:38. Erb watched it count down. 22:37…22:36…22:35….

The ‘Window Length’ indicator read 17.233. They had seventeen seconds to initiate Transition to make the window, before the system flushed the drive. “Phillips, patch me to Giordano.”

After a few seconds, Giordano’s voice crackled to life. “All set, Gordo.”

“Good, start warming the drive up. Be careful how you do it — I want no power wasted.”

“Me? Waste power? You’ve got the wrong person, boss.”

Erb grinned. They had done it. He busied himself with prechecks, while keeping an eye on the porthole, in case Orgs showed up now (of all times). Not that they could fight them, but nervousness was getting to him.

Five minutes to. “Giordano, activate drive.”

“Activated.”

“Power it up and hold for initiation.”

Giordano started to carry his orders out. Erb watched the power level drop. Thirty…twenty-five…seventeen….

It leveled at six point eight. The drive worked by surging accumulated power at the beginning, literally shoving a ship into n-space. After that, the trip lasted however long that surge had put it in for. As of three minutes, forty-five seconds, the power needed for the trip to Clarke was ready for Transition.

Each second seemed to take an hour. There was nothing to do now but wait. Erb’s heart pounded faster and faster….

00:10…00:09…00:08…. It had worked, they had held the crew together long enough. 00:03…00:02…00:01….

There was a beep, and the ‘Window Length’ indicator started to count down. 16…15…14…. Erb slapped the initiate button, and braced himself.

Nothing happened.

He slapped it again. And again. 9…8…7…. Time was racing now. He looked over the board franticly. “Captain’s Override” blinked on and off. 4 seconds now. “Ibanz!” Erb shouted desperately, “Initiate!”

There was a claxon, and five days accumulated power was shunted away, into cold space.

“Right, stand down,” said Ibanz, rising. “A good drill, Leftenant.”

Erb felt hollow. “Drill?” he whispered.

“Of course. When we’re ready to go, we will be ready. I see that now. Now then, I need you to collect reports from your C.P.O.’s on the crew’s reactions and efforts. Now that the superstructure’s ready, crash priority should go to the Plasma Cannon array.

“You…idiot!!!” Erb stood, fury replacing his horror. “You psychopathic idiot!!! That power was our only way out of here! We’ll never accumulate enough to initiate Transition before the last window!”

“Oh, bother, I’ll compute new Astrogation. Right after we clean up those Orgalin ships, when they arrive.”

“We can’t clean anything up! The ship’s wrecked, the power’s gone! We’re dead in space, you bloody skin!”

“Language, Leftenant. Now then, you have your orders. Right, Force Commander? He has his orders.”

“Yes Captain,” Paradis said, and shot Ibanz in the back.

Shipboard weaponry has to be very exacting. A slugthrower or L-pulse weapon might penetrate a plastisteel porthole and depressurize a deck. Oh, it was unlikely, but they had to be sure. The answer was a plastic fragmentation pistol. Metal coated plastic was accelerated magnetically to the end of the pistol barrel, where it fragmented into tiny, high velocity pieces. The pieces couldn’t penetrate hull or porthole. They couldn’t even penetrate Outgear. But Ibanz didn’t wear Outgear. The fragments penetrated uniform cloth and flesh all too well.

“Is he….”

“Dead?” Paradis sounded cynical. “No. Paralyzed, maybe. But he can talk. And with a little effort, we can make him astrogate.”

“It won’t matter.” Anger turned to hopeless despair. “The Orgs’ll show up long before we regain power. Unless, of course, Excalibur Planetary Defenses took all their ships out.”

“Inconceivable. So now what?”

“I don’t know. We die.” Saying it didn’t make facing it any easier.

“Well then.” Paradis sat on the arm of the chair. “At least Bailey’s murderer got taken down.”

Erb felt horrible. Shooting a man? Mutiny? That was a victory? He rubbed his face. It was hot — maybe a fever.

“Ibanz killed Annabelle?”

Phillip’s question startled Erb. He had forgotten the Comm officer was even there. “Yeah. He did.”

“Oh.” Phillips sounded almost mouse-like.

Erb was rubbing his burning eyes — he had been staring at the displays without blinking, he had been so frantic — so he missed Phillips lunging across the room. The noise alerted him in time to see Phillips slam his weight into the unconscious Ibanz, thrashing and choking him, shouting incoherent obscenities. Paradis reacted before Erb could, launching himself forward and dragging the sobbing, flailing officer off of the mad captain. He held Phillips until the communications officer had broken down completely, sobbing and shaking his head. Paradis whispered to the man, holding him in a rough embrace, until Phillips fell into a tortured stupor. Then he set the man gently into a chair.

“I guess as long as he thought it was an accident, he could hold himself together,” Erb muttered.

“Right.” Paradis checked Ibanz. “Dying,” he muttered. “Phillips broke his neck.”

“Another death.”

“Right. We’d better call the crew together — explain everything.”

“For what? Better to just crack the air seals and end it quick.”

“Oh no you don’t!!!” Paradis leapt from the kneeling crouch he had used to check Ibanz. “Erb, like it or not, you’re in command now. Don’t you dare give in! If we had taken Ibanz out two days ago, we’d be in n-space now.”

“I’m not a line officer.”

“You’re the closest we’ve got. You held people together when he was in command. Now you’re in command.”

“But I….” Erb stopped. Bailey’s voice echoed in his head one more time: “…because I’ve told you to and in this mess of circuitry and crumpled bulkheads, I don’t have time to explain myself. To be honest, I don’t feel much like a captain — but that’s the job I have to do. So do your job and let me get back to mine.”

She was right. He was right too. Erb pushed over to the communications board — stepping around Phillips, and punched up Giordano.

“What the Hell happened? Did that damn–”

“Not now, Giordano. Get everyone to the mess hall, for a meeting. No Outgear. Pull chairs into a circle for them.”

“Forget it! Gordo, I couldn’t get these people to run out of a burning building. We’re talking a complete–”

“Find a way, Giordano. You’re Executive Officer.”

“What? Ibanz–”

“Is dead. I’m in command.”

There was a pause. “You are?” She chuckled. “I’ll be damned. All right, I’ll get them up there. We might as well write our post mortem together.” She cut the circuit.

“Let’s go,” said Paradis, standing.

“Wait,” he said. “Captains enter the room last.”

“What?” Paradis looked scared. “Erb….”

“I’m not wigged out! If I appear to be a captain, they’ll listen to me more than if I look like a scared engineer!” Erb pleaded with his eyes. Trust me, he wanted to say.

“Yeah…okay. Should we wake up Phillips?”

“Not yet. Let’s clean the garbage out.”

“Right.”

Erb, rumpled, smelly, and exhausted, walked into the room. Ninety-four people were sitting in a circle. Some of them looked like they had been in fights. Erb noticed someone had closed a sectional wall, making the room much smaller. That was a good idea — it should have been done immediately after the initial attack.. However, the smaller room looked positively filled with angry people. That made Erb a bit nervous.

“All right,” he said, as clearly as he could. “Here’s the scoop.” He paused then. What should he tell them? The truth? How much?

“Go on,” Porter said, blood on his face. “We all know we’re dead.”

“Don’t say that–” Erb began.

“Why not?”

“Shut up, Porter!” That was another person. Erb wasn’t sure who.

“You shut up!”

People slammed to their feet, and pushed for each other. Others tried to hold them back, but they only succeeded in getting people angrier. It looked like the entire room would break into a brawl. Paradis started to jockey, trying to figure how to defuse it.

“Sit down!” The voice seemed to slam into the crowd, like a hammer on a nail. Tempers deflated, mostly out of shock. Erb was mildly surprised to realize he was the one who shouted. “There’s no good fighting. If we die, we die, but let’s die together!”

People began to take their seats again, though anger still simmered through the room.

“That’s better. All right. Here it is. Ibanz is dead. He decided to hold a little live drill, which cost us most of our power. It’ll take four or five days to build it back up. We have eight preprogrammed Transition vectors left, over the next three days. That means we’ll have power for Transition, without any vectors to go by, and no Astrogater.

“Right about now, I’m open to suggestions. When I say that, I mean I am open to reasonable comments or ideas concerning our situation. I do not want to hear arguments, anger, insults or tears.” Erb glanced around the room fiercely. ‘Let them hate me,’ he thought to himself, ‘but let them try.’

“What about a power reactor?” That was Walters, a scientist. “Can we get one back online?”

“No — we have about a tenth of a reactor left in good parts. Paradis and I already went over it.”

“What about the Plasma Guns?” asked Michaels.

“Michaels, we’re off weapons. Unlike our dear departed friend, I’m not psychotic.”

“No,” said Michaels, “I mean, what about their parts? The guns are still mostly operational, and they do roughly similar functions.”

“What?” Erb stared at Michaels, while turning the possibilities over in his head.

“Right,” said Godfrey, “and a lot of Fusion Guns and the Particle Accelerators have salvageable parts, too.”

“We have more than a little nuclear ordinance sitting in our bay, waiting for launchers that’ll never be cleared.” That was Paradis, also looking thoughtful.

“Those are fission,” said Walters.

“But there are similar parts in them. Things we can use.” Giordano had an excited look in her eyes.

“All right,” Erb said, slapping his hands together. “Giordano, segment the crew into teams, and get them stripping all salvageable parts from the weapons systems. Bring those parts to Engineering, where we’ll be trying to get the portside auxiliary reactor online. People will eat in five man shifts — same with antirad treatments. We have roughly two days to get the reactor going, if we want to get out of here.”

“What if the Orgalins show up?” That was Jenkins, a Midshipman on cruise. She looked frightened, though she had acquitted herself well throughout the earlier ordeals.

“If the Orgs show up, we hope our dead ship doesn’t trigger their sensors. If it does, we’ll be dead so fast it doesn’t matter.” Erb clapped his hands together again. “Move it! Oh — and anyone programming the systems for coffee — better double the stimulants in it! It’s gonna be one of those nights!”

When Erb heard the laughter, he knew they had surmounted one crisis.

Nip and tuck, file to size. Make it fit and make it work. Erb knew the parts they were getting weren’t quite the parts they needed. The question was, could you take a pile of the wrong machinery and make it function correctly?

Some problems were easier than others. The hardwired control centers which regulated the reactors were garbage, but the necessary programming was stored in the computer core. If they slaved the computer to the reactor, it would regulate it long enough to build their power stores up, and then they could go off line, resetting the computers to load the navigational programs. He set a few people to configuring that.

Erb himself had to stay with the reactor project. He, Giordano, Michaels and maybe Godfrey were the only people who know how to repair it. Michaels he did without, having him instead work on stripping weapons of their usable parts. He would send the parts down to the engine room, where the senior engineers would try and fit them in. Every so often, Godfrey would head out with a list of ‘must-haves.’ They left it to Michaels to figure out when and where. The parts they got back weren’t quite what they asked for, but could be made to work.

With four vectors still ahead of them, they started the reactor. Then, after putting the fire out, hey then ran checks to see what went wrong. With two vectors left, they tried again.

The power curve advanced up, ever so slowly, until it reached seventeen point eight percent nominal production. There it leveled off, with too many warning telltales in the yellow already. However, since the solar accumulators alone only accounted for naught point eight production, the boost was incredible. At this new rate, they would go up point five an hour.

That point five an hour took them past one of the vectors, leaving them seven hours before the last one. Erb took the overtaxed reactor offline at fifty-one point three percent power. More than enough.

He then took an antiradiation treatment, and a nap. He had been thirty-nine hours without sleep.

Erb was roughly awakened. “Come on, Gordo,” Paradis growled. “Up and at ‘em. Emergency!” The photorch glare and rude awakening brought back bad memories, but Erb shoved them away.

“What is it? Do you enjoy waking me up in the middle of the night? The captain can’t of been killed, since I’m the captain.

“Phillips was on the bridge. He saw flares about ten degrees away from the system star. He thinks they were n-space departures.”

Erb sat bolt upright. “How long to the window?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“Damn. Come on, let’s get to the bridge.”

Phillips and Giordano were on the bridge, which was uncharacteristically darkened. They both had IR viewfinder goggles, and were trying to home in on any movement.

It was a pretty poor sensor system.

“Erb, what should we do?” Phillips seemed to have recovered his spirits, somewhat, in the last few days. He seemed more worried now than anything else.

“Shut everything down but the computer. If we don’t radiate any power signals, it might be quite a while before they find us. I hope.” Erb was worried. He wasn’t really a commander — he was an engineer. His only advantage was understanding the way their sensors worked.

If the ships did find them, it was over. If they maneuvered the ship off of it’s drifting course, they’d lose their window. The only arsenal they had were those L-Cannons — since the light pulse weapons didn’t have any equipment they could patch into the reactor.

“What about the crew?”

“Get the real engineers up and into the engine room. Get everyone else into their bunks and have them wait. Everyone in Outgear, so we can kill life support. And for God’s sake hurry.” Erb sank into the captain’s chair. He was having some trouble seeing straight. His nerves was pretty well shot, and he was exhausted. “Hey, Drew. Before we shut down, cajole some of that near-coffee for me.”

“Right.” Paradis stepped into the Flag Office, where there was a mini-processor.

Erb shivered, looking at that office. He could swear it reeked of Ibanz. Then, he pushed up and waved Phillips to the emergency Outgear locker, while Giordano kept watch. The two of them helps each other into their gear, just in time for Paradis to clip the coffee tube to Erb’s suit. Phillips went and started checking the crew’s status.

“Giordano, Paradis, suit up.” Erb shook himself inside the armor, turning an air jet onto his face by remote.

“Crew’s secured,” said Phillips. He sounded worried.

“Good. Kill life support.” The gravity cut suddenly, which Erb hadn’t been prepared for. He lurched, floating away from the deck.

“Hey, boss,” said Paradis, attaching an IR spotter to his helmet, “try to keep your feet on the ground, okay?”

“Right,” Erb muttered, pushing himself back down with a micro blast of compressed nitrogen. He then keyed the electromagnets in his boots, and he clacked to the floor. Pulling his own IR filter/spotter from his Outgear’s toolkit, he locked it into place and scanned space for heat traces. The solar disk was automatically screened out, of course, though that polarizing likely screened the Orgalin ships from sight, as well.

Erb wished he knew how close they were. They had no way to measure how far the flares had been from the Hephaestus. Even at a ten G acceleration, the Orgs might be days away if they didn’t find them on sensor. If they did find them, a micro jump through n-space would get them to attack range in seconds.

“Gordo,” said Giordano, “you’d better load up the program. We’ll keep an eye out for them.”

“Right.” Erb pulled himself into the pilot’s chair, and activated the program. That maddening delay seemed worse, if anything, but then the displays came on.

He couldn’t read them. The IR filter, still screening out the star’s light, had obscured it. “Guys, I’ve got to pull my IR,” he said.

“Don’t,” said Phillips. “There’s an optic cable you can plug into your helmet. It’ll throw the displays up inside. It’ll even give you a Virtual picture of where your controls are.”

“Oh.” Erb flushed. It was silly to be embarrassed — he wasn’t really a pilot — but silly described him well. With some fumbling, he got the cable connected.

Sixteen minutes thirty seconds, and a twenty two second window. It didn’t feel like a half-hour had passed since Paradis woke him up, but how could he tell.

Please, he prayed reverently, don’t find us for another seventeen minutes!

“I better get down to Engineering,” Giordano said. “I’ll start warming up the drive and running preflights.”

“Right — be careful. The ship’s dark.”

“Hey, what are suit Photorchs for?” She clicked hers on and jetted for the door.

Erb started to run prechecks himself. He noted the power curve dropping slightly, as the plant started absorbing power. The magnetic field that protected the drive — could the Orgs read that? Normally, probably not, but the damaged Superstructure wasn’t as effective a shield against such intrusion any more. It couldn’t be helped, so Erb tried not to worry about it.

“Found him!” Paradis shouted.

“How far?” Erb’s heart pounded.

“Do I look like I have a range finder? The suit’s range beacon can’t penetrate the plastisteel screen.”

“If it could, they’d pick it up anyway,” said Phillips. “It looks like a couple corvettes. Nothing we’d normally be worried about. But if they’re close enough for me to see what they are–”

“They’re too damn close. Right.” Erb glanced at the display. 09:48…09:47…09:46….

“Looks like they’re heading this way.”

“I’m not sure I needed to know that.” Erb took a big gulp of coffee. his hands were shaking inside the gauntlets. He felt nauseous. Was it the rad illness? He hadn’t gotten the treatments he should have, these last few days, though the nurse said he was doing fine….

“If Ibanz had only initiated,” Paradis muttered.

“If none of us had joined the military, we wouldn’t be here today,” Erb snapped. Might have beens were not the solution. “Get down and belt in, you two.”

They did. Erb waited, and waited. At 04:58, they started main buildup of power. The power levels dropped to twenty-two point three, and held.

“One of the corvettes is swinging around. Gods, they must be within fourteen megameters!”

“Damn!” Fourteen megameters was far too close. They had spotted the power buildup, and were pushing for attack. If they could close to five megameters, they’d be in Plasma cannon range — and a P-shot would affect their vectors. They’d blow the window.

“Should I charge the L-Cannons?” Phillips asked.

Erb snorted. “If you want. We don’t have sensors to target with, nor crews to maneuver them, though.”

“Oh. What can we do?” Phillips sounded scared.

“Pray.” Paradis was calm, almost sounding amused. For a second, Erb resented the Marine’s composure. He choked the instinct down — of course Paradis had been in firefights before. He had experience with such utter helplessness.

The indicator flicked to 00:59. It was a race, now. Erb heard a rush in his ears, as he placed his hand over the Initiation key.

“What are those flares?” Paradis asked. Erb fought the instinct to look at what he meant.

“Microparticles being torched. They must be firing L-Cannon at us.” Phillips had panic in his voice.

“No big deal,” Erb barked. “Light pulses won’t change our vector, and there’s not much they can damage with those things.” They were within ten megameters, though, and accelerating. The Orgs knew they had to hit the Hephaestus before it could escape — they could read the sensor readings.

00:18…00:17…00:16….

“Plasma!”

“No!!”

“He missed! He missed! It’s okay!”

00:09…00:08…00:07…. Out of the corner of his eye, Erb could see the missed shot flare past the porthole. They must be nervous too, he thought.

He heard a beep. The ‘Window Length’ indicator hit twenty-one, and counted down. He slapped the key–

“Captain’s Override”

“Do it!” shouted Phillips, panicked, while Erb stared at the screen, frozen.

“My God!” Erb shouted. They’d left the override on!! 14…13…12….
He wrenched up, and got slammed into his seat by the belt. Savagely, he tore at it. 8…7…6…. Throwing himself away, he was snapped around by the cord connected to his helmet. He pushed forward. No way to know how long. He was sailing in a straight line in the weightless room. He released the nitrogen jets to push him to the chair, swinging his arm blindly at the armrest.

With a horrendous pitch, and the sound of rending metal, Erb was slammed bodily into the captain’s chair. The chair ripped free from the deck, and both he and it slammed through the cubicle door and into the back bulkhead. The world spun and, with a sense of deja vu, Erb lost consciousness.

When his eyes opened and he saw he was in the infirmary, when the nausea started to rise in him and his head throbbed, when the nurse pushed him back down and Giordano started listing the damages done when they initiated Transition, when all of this happened and more, Erb knew that finally, everything was going to be all right.

The Big Change is exactly what it sounds like. Something happens to change the world, change society, change the way things have always been done, and then everyone has to deal with it. Theftworld and Trigger Man both deal with the same Big Change despite being set several hundred years apart — stardrive technology, always limited to third stage transitions, could now do fifth which makes new travel routes possible — and there is a third (sadly lost) story that dealt with that change a third time: this time from the point of view of economics.

The Home Front is on one level a homage to the pulp heroes I love. On another, it’s a homage to the golden age of superhero comic books. But on a third it’s a Big Change setting. The common theme is twofold: World War II hits, and actual super powered beings appear in its wake, making the unpowered Mystery Man obsolete. (As, indeed, he was in ‘our’ history too. In fact, the superheroic version of the Mystery Man himself was a bridge between the age of the pulp hero like the Shadow and Superman or the Sub-Mariner. Even the more prominent of the bridge characters like Batman had to embrace the superheroic side of his personality to endure.)

As people have noticed, a lot of Big Change stories are melancholy or even downright depressing. That’s because not everyone makes it through the Big Change equally, and there’s always at least some nostalgia or wistfulness.

This is not a wistful story today. And while it deals with the heart of the Big Change for the Mystery Men — embodied by their withdrawal from their urban battlefields and the reformation into the traveling Liberty Brigade show, drumming up support for war bonds and scrap metal drives — it also deals with the Big Change that America underwent in the war. It’s by far the ugliest of the Home Front stories, and it deals with mature themes.

This one was bought by Greg at Mythic Heroes as well, and was privileged to have been given the magazine’s cover (a dramatic cover piece I dearly wish I had an electronic copy of). Unfortunately, while the issue was solicited through Diamond, it hit the end of the Mythic Heroes ride during the Comics bust, and the issue never saw the comics shops or the newsstands. I actually shopped the story around to the magazines afterward, but mostly got form letters back (and a very nice letter from Gordon Van Gelder, the then new editor at The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, that explained that he couldn’t use the piece, but expressing what seemed like sincere regret over the demise of Mythic Heroes.)

I hope you like it. And I promise the last story — scheduled for next Thursday, as it’s a multiple part serial instead of a short story — is nowhere near as depressing.

But then, it hardly could be.

*** *** *** ***

I was born in 1925, in the Silver Spire district of Megapolis, in America. Both my parents were immigrants, but I am an American citizen.

Never forget this. If this story is going to say anything at all, it has to say it from that perspective. I am an American. I am a citizen. I was born under the aegis of the Constitution. I am not a foreigner.

Who cares anyway? Why does it matter?

I promised Jan I’d tell the story. I promised her I wouldn’t let Solitaire and Diamond be forgotten in these oh so modern days. So I have to write this, because I’ll never have another chance to. But I can’t tell her story. And as much as I wish I could, I can’t tell my story from the point of view of her optimism. Her hope. Her dreams. I live in a reality that’s too damn cold for me to lie about it. Not now.

My name is Ellen Nakimota. My parents emigrated from Kyoto, Japan in 1912. My father was a tailor. On December seventh, nineteen forty-one, I was sixteen years old.

They had been good years. I was a typical teenager in the forties, if something of a square. I listened to the radio with my younger brother, Ben, for example. I liked “Shadow” and “The Inner Sanctum” and “Gunsmoke,” and I used to listen to “The Lux Radio Theatre” – live from Hollywood, with a popular movie adapted and abridged with the original actors supplying the voices each week! And I read Astounding magazine and Thrilling Stories and all the rest. And Mondays at seven thirty, I’d listen to RKO’s “Adventure Hour”, featuring two cases ‘based on their real life exploits, just as they actually occurred.’ That was my favorite. One was usually about the Golden Swashbuckler, the other about the Sleuth. Those stories were different. They were real.

Today I know that the stories were produced without the approval of the Swashbuckler or the Sleuth. Since they were both vigilantes and mystery men, they couldn’t very well sue over they use of their names. In later years I asked Nick why they didn’t try to stop people from using their names to make money.

He kind of sniffed and looked at me. “Dimmy,” he said – that was my nickname in the Liberty Brigade, born of the ‘wit’ of Six Gun Sam – “I thought about shutting them down, sure. But Hell, I was too big a fan. They made my life better than it was.”

I’m getting ahead of my story, though.

I remember cheering once, when I was thirteen. The Golden Swashbuckler had just single-handedly collared Midnight Molly’s gang and cuffed Molly herself. It was too exciting and I screamed. My mother ran in to silence me, but before I calmed down there was a knock at the door.

I should mention we lived in a three bedroom apartment. It was pretty nice – Dad made a good living. We had a Jap-hating Super who was barely civil and let repairs go undone for weeks, sometimes, but the Landlord actually lived in the penthouse on the top of the building, and she was nice. Her name was Janice Taylor.

And Janice Taylor was standing outside the door when my Mother opened it. She was an heiress, and pretty young. In her twenties, maybe. And she was pretty and blond and very intimidating.

“I heard a noise,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

My mother was a little flustered, and didn’t speak English very well. Add to that an ingrained politeness – both my parents were always unfailingly polite with outsiders – and you can understand her consternation. But she managed to make it clear that her ungrateful daughter had made a ruckus and would be punished severely, and that she was sorry to have bothered such an important person.

“No bother,” Miss Taylor said, and bold as brass walked up to me and squatted down. “Why did you scream?” she asked.

I told her about the Golden Swashbuckler. Miss Taylor smiled. “It sounds exciting,” she said. “I like to listen to the Adventure Hour too.”

“You do?” I asked. My parents only listened to music and the news, on the radio.

“Mm-hm,” she said, and looked me over. “Mrs. Nakimota,” she said, “I’ve been looking for someone to help clean up and organize my home. Do you think it would be all right if – what’s your name?”

“Ellen,” I half-whispered.

“Ellen were to do that? I can pay her three dollars a week.”

Three dollars a week wasn’t a lot, but it was something – and more than I got for an allowance. My mother agreed and I went to work for Miss Taylor. Weirdly enough, I discovered that Miss Taylor had even more pulp magazines than my mother and I did, as well as a good library and a top of the line RCA radio. She sponsored me in gymnastics classes, too.

At the time I didn’t think anything of it. Now I have to guess Miss Taylor – Jan – had been planning for her career in advance. I do know she studied the Golden Swashbuckler and the Sleuth like a hawk.

But whatever her plans, a war changed them.

I was listening to something or other on the radio when the bulletin came on. I’m not sure what it was. The bulletin was too big for me to remember details. Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor. Our fleets were decimated. It was a sneak attack. A cowardly attack. I was furious.

My father wasn’t. He had a different look on his face. It wasn’t rage. I think it was shame. Maybe fear.

Look, Jap-baiting had gone on for a long time. It was a fact of life at school. I was used to it. First off, I looked and sounded different than the white kids – I and my brother were the only Japanese in the neighborhood, so I didn’t end up in a Negro school. But I wasn’t popular and I don’t think Ben was, either. But I mostly screened it out. I mean, sure, James Auckland called me Yellow Kid or Slantie or stuff like that, but my friends liked me and besides, it was the only game in town. I was different and I had to put up with that. I didn’t see anything wrong with it.

So I had no way of understanding my father’s fear. Understanding that the war would change my life forever.

The next day, we listened to President Roosevelt. The next few days I barely remember. It was a whirlwind of activity. People were always running through the streets and shouting something or other. If I could have, I would have volunteered. I was as angry as everyone else. The dirty Japanese had attacked my country! Remember that – they attacked us. There’s such a difference between that and ‘we attacked you.’ I’ve never been to Japan – not even to Kyoto where my father had been a boy.

But things changed. Almost overnight, things changed. People at school got ruder – started calling me Jap more and more. My friends stopped being so friendly. My teachers never seemed to stop looking at me. My father’s business suffered. As a result, the rent was late and the Super shut off our heat. Miss Taylor had him turn it back on – she at least didn’t change.

It was mid-December when they came for us.

It was late at night, and the police hammered on our door with a nightstick. My father answered and invited them in. They didn’t sit down.

“We’re here to escort you to the Megapolis East Port Authority,” their leader, a Sergeant Anthony, said. “There you will be placed on a train for Los Angeles. From there you will be directed to your temporary living quarters.”

“I no understand,” my father said in his broken English. “I no young. I no able to join army.”

One of the officers laughed – an ugly laugh. “Hear that, Joe,” he said. “Nip here wants to join the army.”

“Shut up. Mister Nakkimojo, you’re being detained by Federal Order. You’re being sent to a Detention Center.”

My father understood – I’m sure of it – but he still said, “Jail? I no do anything.”

“You bombed Pearl Harbor,” the officer who had laughed spat.

“I a tailor. I make you pants, maybe? I no drop bombs.”

“Mister Nakkimojo,” Anthony said, emotionless, “this is a security issue. We’re at war. Maybe you didn’t do anything and maybe you did. Either way we have to keep an eye on you people. Don’t worry, you’ll be treated fairly.”

I found out later they were supposed to give us twelve hours. They gave us maybe twenty minutes. Any longer, and they threatened to get violent. If we resisted, we were spies. Period. We went. I went. An American Citizen, born in Megapolis who had never even shoplifted, was gathered up by the police and herded off into a camp.

We were piled into a large room where they usually stored shipping, just off the Port Authority. Lots of others were with us; Japanese, Chinese – anyone who had yellow skin and slants to their eyes were piled into that room to wait for the train. I was sitting with the rest of my family, trying to stay near what luggage we were able to grab and looking around at the rest of the scared people, when five police officers and a couple of soldiers made their way through the crowd. They were surrounding someone – a V.I.P., it seemed.

The V.I.P. grabbed the shoulder of one of the soldiers and pointed at our family. With a start, I realized it was Miss Taylor.

They started coming for us. My mother started to cry – I think she thought Miss Taylor had come to get us in even more trouble. Maybe claim we robbed her or something. But no, when they got close, it became clear they were coming for me.

“This is her?” one of the policemen asked.

“Oh yes,” Miss Taylor said, looking dazzling and somewhat vacuous. “I’ve had the most horrible time training her to be my maid, and I simply refuse to let that training go to waste. I mean, I think of the hours I spent-”

A maid. That was all I was to her. A maid and a domestic. I thought she had liked me. I missed most of the rest of the conversation, until I heard the soldier say “well, I doubt she’s a spy. Come on, girl – you speak English?”

“Fluently,” I muttered under my breath.

“Come on then-”

My father raised his hand. “Excuse – but my daughter, she stays-”

“Shut up,” a policeman said, and raised his stick.

“Oh don’t you dare hit Mister Nakimota!” Miss Tailor said. “He’s been just darling. Now Mister Nakimota, I promise you I’ll see Ellen behaves. It is all right with you, isn’t it?”

My father met Miss Taylor’s eyes, and I guess he saw something there. Something to trust. He nodded, and I walked away. I looked back. My mother was crying, Ben was huddled next to our luggage… but my father was watching me, and he looked relieved.

It was the last time I ever saw him. He had a heart attack in the camp, and wasn’t brought to a hospital before he had already died.

I rode in Miss Taylor’s limousine, watching the Port Authority recede slowly. I felt – I don’t know. Bitter. Miserable. My world had been destroyed, and now my last friend had stripped me of the last of my dignity.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get your whole family out,” Miss Taylor said quietly. There was no trace of the Rich White Bitch Heiress who had come for me.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You didn’t invest anything in them.”

“Ellen-” she started to say.

“Don’t you mean ‘girl?’ Or does Honorable Mistress intend to honor me with such famil-”

“Ellen,” she snapped. “Listen to me-”

“Why should I? Huh? If I don’t, are you going to put me on a train and send me to-”

“Ellen,” she said, very quietly. She wasn’t angry. Sad, maybe. “I had to sell the authorities a bill of goods or they wouldn’t let me get you out of there. If I hurt you – if I slandered you too much by the way I did it, I’m sorry and I hope you’ll let me make it up to you.”

I stared at her, and then I burst into tears. All my fear and frustration just let itself out. Miss Taylor gathered me into her arms and let me cry myself out.

We got to the building, and Miss Taylor brought me up to my old apartment. When we got there, she let us in with her passkey. “Let’s get this cleaned up and organized,” she said, looking at the mess.

We did, and it helped. In a way, Miss Taylor was validating my family. Validating our existence. The government had turned us upside down, but Miss Taylor was helping me get our things in order, if nothing else. When we were finished, she asked me if I wanted to stay there or in the Penthouse with her.

I went with her. I decided to only move home when my family did. If they did.

The next morning, over breakfast, Miss Taylor showed me a newspaper headline.

“Mysterious Spycracker cracks Jerry Ring in Knight City,” I read out loud. There was a blurred photo of a man in grey. “A mystery man? Like the Sleuth and the Judge?”

Miss Taylor nodded. “And they aren’t the only ones. This war’s breeding Mystery Men.”

“Huh. That’s exciting.”

“Yes…. Ellen… what do you want to do?”

I must have looked confused. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, you must know that people are going to… well, be mean to you. I can’t send you back to your school, even if I accept responsibility for you. They’d take you but you’d hate every second of it. I doubt you can get a job. I’ll happily let you be my maid if that’s what you want, and you can stay here as long as you like – rent free, even if you don’t do a lick of work. I’ll require you to study, but that’s all.”

“Well… if you’ll let me stay, I’ll be your maid, if that’s what you want. Or whatever. I don’t know. They can’t really keep my family in camps for very long, can they?”

Miss Taylor looked off, out the window. “They certainly can,” she said. “In California, they’ve fairly demanded it. They say the native Japanese population represent a threat. They’re afraid of sabotage – of Log Angeles or San Francisco being bombed.”

“But – but we haven’t done anything wrong! They’re acting-” she bit her tongue.

“Just like the Nazis? There are some who believe that, yes. Believe it because you’re right. But don’t expect to hear from too many of them. People are scared, and they aren’t being rational.”

I didn’t say anything. In fear and anger, just the night before, I had lashed out at the one person who had been nice to me.

“Ellen, do you still feel that we have to win this war?”

“Well sure,” I said. “We have to win! If the Nazis and Japs win, they’ll-” I stopped, suddenly. I was going to say ‘they’ll stamp out freedom,’ but my own country had done that already.

“Think about it,” she said. “Do you still think we have to win this war? Do you still think it’s important that you do something to help?” She was looking at me in a funny way.

“Yes,” I said, finally.

“Why?”

“I’m an American.”

She smiled slightly. “Then maybe I have an idea on what we can do.”

After five or six months, we debuted. Solitaire and Diamond, they called us. She was Solitaire, the adult. She wore a bathing suit, more or less, with tight trousers covering her legs – indecently tight. It was a chorus girl’s outfit, kind of. But she wore boots with it, not heels. I remember some Mystery ‘Men’ wore heels, but they didn’t last long. Tried their hand and then left, it seems. I don’t think any of them died. And me? I wore a full bodysuit in blue and yellow, with a full face mask and lenses, and black hair spilling out the back. Jan had suggested it – she knew there were a lot of people that would react the wrong way to an oriental Mystery Man.

It was 1952 before it occurred to me that a woman named ‘Solitaire’ had a sidekick. Her symbol was a solitaire diamond, of course. That was our shtick.

Our first case we cracked a German cell that tried to blow up Megapolis Dam – it was a Hydroelectric plant and would have crippled Megapolis’s industries. We had outfought them – Jan had drilled me in some nasty commando fighting. I don’t know where she learned it. That plus we had our little specialty jewels. Green ones that gave off a blinding flash. Red ones with tear gas. Blue ones that exploded – maybe a blasting cap’s worth. Things like that. It got a big splash – both because we did save the day and because, well, we were women.

Actually, we got more press because we were women.

That started the best part of my life. Not the part I enjoyed the most – those sixteen years by the radio were the years I enjoyed the most. But anything good that came of my life came from those months when I fought World War II the only way they’d let me. It didn’t matter if I were yellow under my clothes. The old ladies I saved from thugs were glad I was there. The spies who wanted to sabotage our war efforts learned to hate me. The racketeers who tried to grip our city in fear learned to fear me. That’s a legacy most people never get. The solid knowledge that they have made a difference.

Right now, that’s the only thing I have left. The only thing I can point to and say “I mattered.”

It was a dizzingly exciting time. I really did work as Jan’s maid, being careful to call her ‘Miss Taylor’ and even wearing a domestic’s uniform whenever people were around us. I went to the store for her too – a lot of the time I faked not speaking English to ignore the jeers and slurs. A lot of people with German last names seemed to whether the war without too much discomfort, but an oriental was a spy and subhuman – guilty until proven innocent, and they owned the judge.

But it wasn’t that hard to get used to it. I never went out except on errands or in uniform. I had never been an outdoorsy type anyway – hours in Jan’s library suited me just fine. Between that, doing for Jan, training and patrolling, I had a pretty full time. And studying. Jan got herself approved as a tutor and she kept on me to study. I had my High School diploma when I was seventeen. She told me that when the war was over, she’d subsidize me going to college if I wanted. Maybe I could be a schoolteacher or a librarian, she said.

I didn’t think about it much.

We kept up the good fight in Megapolis into late 1944. It was a pretty good setup. I’ve heard that a lot of mystery men had to keep on the run from the police while they were independent, but not us. Commissioner Grey liked us. He was sweet on Jan in her civilian identity, which let her find out about cases just as soon as the police did. He was sweet on Solitaire too, of course. Jan used that – she played him like a fish. She told me once she really did like him, but that she’d never have sought him out if he weren’t Commissioner of Police. I guess she was telling the truth – after she hung up her mask, she never really saw him again.

But it was late 1944 when things changed. There were a lot of us by then – all over the country. Every big city had their own Mystery Men. Maybe it was a matter of time before we all grouped up. I mean, when the Judge travelled from Washington D.C. to Megapolis on Siegfried’s trail, naturally we ran into him during the case. And when we had to fly to Lakeshore City to plug up Leo “Dusty” Street’s flood of dirty money into the Megapolis underworld, Nick – the Sleuth – was right in the thick of things. So when the newspapers were screaming about Spycracker and Torpedo stopping Johann Muntz from sabotaging a secret American project, and President Roosevelt invited Mystery Men from all over the country to take Amnesty and meet him at the White House… well, it didn’t really come as a surprise. That step out of vigilantism into legitimacy seemed natural.

President Roosevelt was absolutely charming. We met in the East Room, with the President sitting in a wicker-backed wheelchair and smoking lazily. He knew a surprising amount about our adventures – and more in detail than a single briefing would have told him. He had the Judge near him – a home town boy, I guess – and the rest of us sprawled out, sipping coffee and eating little sandwiches. It was exciting for a lot of reasons. The Golden Swashbuckler was there – looking better than I imagined. So was the Sleuth and Spycracker and Torpedo and the All American Lad….

Torpedo was young – maybe a little younger than I was. He wasn’t the youngest – Jackknife was only eleven. But he sat next to me and struck up a clumsy conversation. After a few seconds, I realized he was attracted to me. It was strange… I hadn’t ever really spent time with boys in uniform, and no one was attracted to a dirty Jap when I was in civvies. But all of a sudden – I had a peer and if he didn’t know what my face looked like, he knew what that tight suit didn’t hide and he liked it.

So I was blushing and flustered when President Roosevelt brought up the real reason we were there.

“So tell me,” he said finally, “have any of you thought about expanding your reach?”

There was a murmur in the room. “What do you mean, sir?” Spycracker asked. He was sort of our leader – even the Golden Swashbuckler seemed to take direction from him.

“I mean, you’re all doing a fine job protecting our shores – and letting both our services and our… special operatives take the battle to the enemy abroad. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that organization and teamwork can lick any problem, big or small.

“That’s what I’m proposing. Teamwork. Look at you all. You’re all crack fighters. Why, I imagine most of you could take on soldiers and win. So maybe you should consider using that together – as a team.”

“Shoot, that ain’t a bad ideer,” Six Gun Sam said.

“We could unite into a legion – a force for justice!” the Golden Swashbuckler said, rising. “A veritable Society!”

“Mmm… not a force for justice, and not a society,” Spycracker said. People naturally quieted when he spoke. “This is a war, not a tiff. If we’re going to join forces, it should be as a military unit. A brigade for the home front. And we should remember what we’re fighting for.”

“Yeah – to beat them lousy Jerrys back to Berlin,” the All American Lad said.

“No,” Spycracker said, cutting his hand through the air sharply. “Not to beat the Germans or the Japanese. We have to beat the Axis – it’s deadly important. But that’s not why we’re fighting.

“We’re fighting for freedom. For liberty. We’re fighting for the right to decide who our leaders are. The right to decide for ourselves. The right to walk down the street in safety. The right, in some cases, for people to live at all.”

“Hm,” Solitaire said. “A Liberty Brigade. I like that idea.”

“So do I,” President Roosevelt said. “It’s a symbol – it’ll give our boys at home and abroad hope!”

People got excited then, and everyone started talking at once. Spycracker, the Golden Swashbuckler, Solitaire and the President seemed to take charge and started hammering out ideas.

“I guess we’re gonna see a lot of each other,” Torpedo said.

“I guess so,” I replied.

It took a month or two, but pretty soon we were travelling across the country. It was wild… glamorous. Before, the mystery men had been, well, mysterious. But now we were celebrities, with flashing cameras and adoring fans. We gave them what they wanted – we had three different stage shows, designed to show off the talents of the Brigadiers to the crowd. I was in the second show – the so-called kid’s show. We played matinees – it was me, and the All American Lad, Jackknife and Torpedo. The Lad did some trick-shooting, Jackknife threw daggers at me and juggled them – catching two of them by the tips of his fingernails- and Torpedo and I did some gymnastics. We had some adults with us, of course – the Sleuth was kind of our ringleader. He’d rally the crowd in his tough-guy talk – the kids loved that Chicago style – and we’d all push for the kids to take their nickels and dimes and buy bonds with them, or collect peach pits to make gas masks. The rest of the adults would do a couple of night shows, then the next day we’d collect our stuff up, pile into the train and off we went. We travelled in uniform, which was lucky since I’d have had trouble getting on the train in the first place – even as Jan’s maid.

But in our hotels most everyone relaxed and changed. If people thought it was funny that I didn’t ever join them, they didn’t say anything. Since I was the only girl – though I was eighteen even at the beginning of the tour and turned nineteen during it – they said nothing.

With two exceptions. The first was Torpedo. We got to know each other pretty well – which made sense. We were partners in the gymnastics act, so we had to practice. And I’ll admit, it was fun rolling around on a mat with a handsome, sweaty boy who could make me laugh. No one accused Ronnie of being the brightest pug, but he really enjoyed life and it was infectious. He kept after me, though. “C’mon, Dimmy – I just want a chance to look in those beautiful eyes. C’mon – you’ve gotta have a name. No mother looks at a baby girl and says ‘I think I’ll call her Diamond!’”

I rebuffed him, though it wasn’t easy. Especially since I was pretty sweet on him. More than once, after a show, we’d sneak off and I’d fold my mask up like I did when I ate in public, and we’d exercise our mouths a little. But I didn’t – I couldn’t – take off my mask. I was afraid. Afraid that he’d look at my face and not see me.

And as for the other…. Well, it was mid ’44, and we were in Philadelphia. I was sitting on the roof of our Hotel – climbing was part of the job, and it was a cool, breezy night – and just enjoying myself.

“So, what’s a nice Japanese girl like you doin’ on a fleabag roof like this?”

I levitated three feet in surprise and another in fear. Twisting into a crouch and clutching a smoke-jewel, I found myself facing down the trenchcoated Sleuth. “What do you mean?” I demanded.

He laughed. “Sister, y’don’t get to be a gumshoe if y’don’t use your eyes. And I’ve done some looking, and I’ve seen a few things. Like the fact that you never even take off your gloves. And your hair’s real pretty, but it’s the right texture and thickness. And the times you slip the bottom of your mask up, you can see your mouth – not so much that people’re jiggering, unless they know what to look for.

“So you’re hiding – and not scars either. So what else could it be?”

“I – I’m not a spy,” I said, shaking. “I never-”

“Hey hey hey,” he said, calming me. “C’mon. You must be Nisi – an American who happens to have Jap parents or grandparents. Your accent’s the wrong sort to mean you learned English as a second language, and ‘sides, you’re too American a teenager. So don’t worry – I’ve known you long enough to know you’re a square kid.”

He walked up to me. “So what’s your name, anyway?”

I pulled off my mask. The wind felt strange… liberating. “Ellen,” I said.

He pulled his Fedora back and slipped the scarf off his face. “I’m called Nick, by people who know me,” he said.

Nick and I became friends. That was nice, because Jan didn’t have a lot of time for sidekicks. Not only was she a featured speaker in one of the adult shows, but she had several of the mystery men sniffing after her at all hours. She loved to play the vamp, but usually ‘Janice Taylor’ had to be Miss Snooty, as part of her cover. A chance to let her hair down meant Jan could go to town.

For those of you who remember the rumors, they’re wrong. Solitaire and Spycracker were never more than professional associates. Jan went to his wedding, but that was the closest the two of them ever got. I think it bugged her that he didn’t go after her. No, the real torrid romance had to be Jan and Robert Richards. Jan told me the nickname ‘Minuteman’ was both rotten and a lie to boot.

So it was nice to have someone to talk to. To explain my fears to, and relax around. Someone who didn’t care what color my skin was or whether I had a fold in the corner of my eye.

Maybe… maybe if Nick had been around the night I got the letter from my mother, everything would have been different.

Jan had her mail forwarded. Naturally, anything that was ‘care of’ her was forwarded too. So one night, just before she ran out the door, she tossed me a letter. “See you, Kid!” she yelled to me, “and don’t wait up. Mmm, I’m going to cut a rug tonight!”

“Good night!” I called after her, and opened the letter.

A few minutes later, I let it fall to the floor. I couldn’t get the image of my father watching me leave the train station out of my head. I couldn’t seem to forget his eyes, even as mine were burning with tears.

I pulled my mask on and ran down the hall, until I reached Nick’s room. I hammered on his door, but there wasn’t any answer.

“Hey, Dimmy, what’s shaking?” Ronnie asked, taking my shoulder. He had come up behind me.

“Leave me alone,” I sobbed, pulling away from him.

“Hey,” he said, concerned. “What is it? You okay?”

“I… I-” I burst into tears again. They covered the lenses of my mask, blinding me. I fell against him and he held me, whispering. Somehow, he got me out of the hall and into his room. Of course, Spycracker was out at a show the same way Solitaire was.

“What is it?” he asked.

“My father’s dead,” I managed to say.

“Oh… oh Jeez. Jeez… oh Dimmy, c’mere….”

I went. He held me and rocked me for a while.

After a long time, I kissed him, through the mask. I pulled it up and kissed him again, and he kissed me back. I wanted that, right then. I needed something to fill the void – the pit that had taken root in my stomach. In my heart. We kissed for a long time, before I reached over and switched off the lamp… and then slowly pulled my mask off, letting the darkness hide me.

I didn’t have to pull anything else off. Ronnie was happy to do it for me.

I must have fallen asleep. I’m not really sure. I must have been relaxed enough to fall asleep in his arms. I can’t really say.

“Jesus Christ!!!”

I snapped awake, jerking up. “What-” I started.

Ronnie was standing by the bathroom door, looking at me.

Looking at me. The overhead lamp was burning.

Looking at me. I started to shake. “Ronnie…” I said, my voice wavering in the room.

“You’re a Jap,” he stuttered, pointing at me. Accusing me as though he wanted me to deny it. “You’re a Jesus Christ freaking Jap!!”

“Ronnie, I-”

“What the Hell are you doin’ here? Jeez Louise, I slept with you! Jesus Christ-”

“Ronnie!” I sobbed. “I’m still-”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up! Oh Jesus… Oh Jesus….”

“Ronnie, please-” I stumbled to him.

“Shut up!” He brought the back of his hand across my face, and I stumbled back, salt in my mouth. “You goddam Jap! What are you doing here? Is it ‘Crack? Are you trying to kill him? What does Tojo have you here for-”

“Ronnie!” The voice was cold, and harsh.

He spun. “Thank God! ‘Crack, it’s Dimmy – I mean Diamond! She’s a damn-”

“Get out,” Spycracker said, his hands clenched into fists. He wasn’t in uniform, but he looked every inch the vigilante.

“Don’t let her go,” Ronnie said. “Jeez, ‘Crack-”

“Get out!!” he roared, grabbing Ronnie and pulling him away from me. He shoved him toward the door. “Get out before I do something we both regret!”

“But-” Ronnie turned and fled. Spycracker turned to me. I was cowering, blood dripping off my lip.

“Are you… all right?” he asked.

The words broke my paralysis. I grabbed my uniform and ran for the open door, not bothering to dress. “Diamond!” he shouted after me, but by then I was stumbling down the hall, to my own room. To safety. I got the key out of my uniform’s pocket, got in, and double bolted the door.

And then I slumped down, sliding down the outside edge of the doorway. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t have any more tears. I just sat there, blood on my face, blood on my thigh, and stared across the room.

It was over. Diamond was dead. In the end, the girl inside the costume was just a dirty Jap. I couldn’t bear to ever wear that mask again. To this day I never have. When Jan got home I asked her to send me back to Megapolis. She asked, but I didn’t explain. And she didn’t press.

I never saw Ronnie again. Two years ago, I got a letter from him – kind of rambling, asking how I was, asking if I could forgive him. I didn’t answer it. Let Torpedo find his own comfort.

Jan didn’t come back with me, and I didn’t ask her to. She loved being Solitaire. She loved a life where she could be free and exciting. So I left her to it. I went back to her apartment and cooked for myself and, well, did a lot of nothing. I read sometimes, but not often. Mostly I smoked and listened to the radio. I never listened to adventure stories, though.

I started throwing up in January of 1945. It didn’t take me long to figure out why. I felt very cold, and very very alone. Jan was still with the Brigade, of course. She wrote to me, and told me they had lots of adventures and that everyone missed me. Spycracker wrote to me too, apologizing. I never heard from Nick. I couldn’t tell any of them about what had happened. What good would it do?

So what could I do? My family was locked away. My father was dead. My surrogate mother was playing dress up. My last friend obviously didn’t approve.

Of course I didn’t tell Ronnie. That wouldn’t serve any purpose at all. At best I could have used it against him, but I like to think I’m better than that.

I felt… cold. Up against a wall. So I gathered a few things and I went out for a long walk, until I came to a small brick building just outside of South Spire, where I was born. You hear rumors. Rumors about places you can get illegal things done.

They didn’t do it right. I bled a lot, almost to death, and I would never be able to have children. Well, maybe I would never deserve to.

I lay there in that bed for three weeks. I didn’t write to anyone. I didn’t want to see anyone. They weren’t bad to me, but they weren’t good to me, either. I was still a Jap, even that late in the war, and they didn’t like me at all.

One night I opened my eyes, even though it was the middle of the night, and he was standing there.

“Sister,” he said quietly, “you do get yourself into some situations, don’t you?”

“Nick,” I said weakly.

He crouched next to me. “You could have said something,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like ‘help.’ Or ‘oh God, Nick.’ Y’know, I make it a policy not to make my friends go through Hell alone. You just make it hard to share it.”

I cried a little, then, and we talked. Later that week he brought me to Lakeshore City. I didn’t want to live in Solitaire’s apartment any more.

And that’s it. That’s the end of my story.

Nick was always nice to me. He always watched out for me. I expect him any day now – he has this sense of when I’m not able to cope. He helped me get set up, and found me a job of sorts.

My family went back to Megapolis. I took the train out to see them a couple of times, but over time I’ve lost touch with them. I don’t have anything to say – and going back there meant going back to Jan’s building. Her apartment.

And that means remembering, and I don’t want to do that.

Jan and I wrote a lot, though. She liked me a lot, and always tried to get me to go to college. Like that would have helped. I learned my lesson, you see. People can love you if they don’t know who you are, and some people can care no matter who you are, but in the end, you’re alone and you have to be strong.

I was never that strong.

The Home Front got its start, more directly than almost anything else I’m putting on here, in Superguy. Superguy, for those of you unfamiliar with it, is a mailing list devoted to superhero fiction. Its heydey was the late eighties through the mid nineties. I wrote in the neighborhood of a million words for it over a period of about seven years.

It was Superguy writers who formed the core of Mythic Heroes. We’d known each other for years, and written together on more than one occasion. And I was happy to adapt a few stories taken far out of ‘continuity,’ for lack of a better term for the new medium. A fellow named Rob Furr had started a “Historical Superguy” project, taking his love of history and applying it to our somewhat goofy superhero list. I wrote about mystery men for it. This story was adapted from the first post I did on the project. Last week’s — “My White Plume” — had been the second Historical Superguy story I wrote, but the first Mythic Heroes story I’d adapted.

Next week’s installment, “Diamond in the Rough,” had also been a Superguy story first but had been heavily edited and changed to fit the new format. And a serial that followed — “Homecoming” — was (mostly) written exclusively for Mythic Heroes, but never had a chance to be published.

One last note: each of the Home Front stories is meant to be told in archival format of some sort. Last week’s was a letter. This week’s is a radio documentary edited from an old interview. The idea is simple enough: all of these are from history. We are supposed to be reading them from some other form.

Just, you know, for the record.

Enjoy!

*** *** *** ***

(from Sentinels of Liberty: The Hero at War, part IV, “The Home Front: Spycracker and Torpedo” air date July 14, 1989, NPR)

Dorian Cross (cont): …towards a goal of liberating the South Pacific, it was another matter back on American soil. With known paranormal and extranormal forces drawn into the war effort, one would expect America itself to be devoid of costumed heroes of any stripe. This, actually, was by no means the case. Most American Cities, in fact, had a number of vigilantes who operated without official sanction of any sort, at least until 1944. In many ways, these so-called mystery men were precursors to the more modern heroes of today. Both the German and Japanese High Commands recognized the considerable conventional and technological strength America possessed, and both Axis powers — along with some minor support from Italy — had active intelligence and terrorist agents in America, working to cripple the American Military/Industrial Complex, as well as America’s centers of Research and Development. Often, conventional Law Enforcement was unable to stop these Foreign agents, and it fell upon the outlaw Mystery Men to protect America’s ability to support a war. Though the Golden Swashbuckler and the Sleuth were the first Mystery Men — both having careers dating back to the early Twenties, when they fought organized crime interests — the most famous of the war era Mystery Men remain Spycracker and his boy partner, Torpedo. They remained true Mystery Men up until Ronnie Carlton — Torpedo — gave his first and only interview since the war in 1971, for CBS News Presents. This was later edited into the form you hear today.

MUSICAL BRIDGE
CUE NARRATION

The thing that gets me about these Vietnam kids — the dodgers who fled to Canada, burned their cards, and stuff like that? There was a lot of similarities between them and us, back in the thirties and forties. I can’t say I agree with any of them. No sirree Bob. A bunch of shirkers. But remember — none of us were in the Army. None of us had gone behind enemy lines and taken on the Boche.

I shouldn’t even say ‘we.’ On December 7th, I was thirteen years old. I had every intention of joining right up when I turned eighteen. No deferments for me — Danny could survive without me. It’s not my fault the Big One ended in ’45, is it? Besides, I think I did as much for the war effort as anyone my age.

That’s the thing. The brothers — the brothers were all fighting for their country, tooth and nail. No matter why they got into the business, I can’t think of a one who didn’t believe in what he was doing, and gave it his all. Those damn Hippies don’t care about anyone but themselves.

With Danny, it wasn’t that he didn’t march right down and check in. On December 10, he had his physical. No way he would wait to be drafted. He wanted to kick Krauts back to Berlin. But — you’ll laugh. I swear you’ll laugh. He was 4-F. Rejected. Danny Coldman — the Spycracker himself — had flat feet. Those leather boots of his were orthopedic. He begged for them to take him anyhow — he said he’d march on stumps if he had to, but they said no. No no no.

You see, that’s what it was like back then. The real go-getters jumped right up. Every corner had Uncle Sam’s finger on it. And the folks who hung back for the draft had a smell like a skunk to them. If you were of Army age and just hanging around, you were half-kraut yourself. These kids today want to make duty a dirty word.

Danny had flat feet. Minuteman was deaf in his left ear. The Sleuth and the Golden Swashbuckler were — believe it or not — too old. Nightstick had a heart murmur. The only one of us who was draftable was Thomas Sanderson — the Judge. Him I don’t blame at all — he had already been cracking a Jerry Spy Ring when the call came, and his lottery number was real low. He knew he wouldn’t have time to break that spy ring if he marched off. So he made some phone calls — some of that Sanderson fortune — and got himself deferred. It was a perfect cover — a coward. He spent four long years of being branded yellow — his girl threw a drink in his face and didn’t talk to him for months. But he took down that spy ring before they could crack the nuts they were looking for, and stopped them from blowing up key power stations along the Eastern Seaboard power grid. It was only after the war was over, when he had taken a bullet meant for Harry S. Truman and was forced off the field, that his good name was cleared. I don’t know if his girl ever said she was sorry, though.

And of course, there were the women. I’ll tell you, I’m not much for these peacenik types, but I have to go with that equal women’s thing. I mean, those ladies were as tough as nails. Not allowed to fight in the trenches, they fought at home.

Well, anyway.

And I was one of them. Sure, a kid partner. A sidekick. But still one of them. My mother killed by a spy’s bomb, Danny my uncle, and my Dad in the trenches, of course. The Spycracker and Torpedo, they called us. It was great.

Of course, it was scary as Hell, too. Don’t fool yourself. Those comics — those movies, they all made out the Home Front fight to be a cakewalk. I saw this one — 1952, it had to be, with Johnny West as the Spycracker — where he took on six spies single-handed, and never drew his club. While I — looking ten, I’d add — was tied up in a corner. I never got any licks in in those movies.

In real life, Danny fought like the dirtiest son of a bitch you can imagine, and so did I. Heck, I stabbed six different people. Stabbed them! That didn’t get into the newspapers, of course. Who cared — they were a bunch of spies, and we were the good guys. America’s own Mystery Men.

Here’s another funny one. The bad-apple Mystery Men the Fatherland sent after us? Blitzen, Das Krieger, and those guys? Nine times out of ten it was harder to beat their goons than it was to beat them. I mean, I was sixteen when I took on Siegfried — their so called Perfect Aryan? Well, he may have been strong, but I took him in six punches. He seemed stunned when I gouged at his eyes. Jeez louise, the man had a bomb ticking in the background and he expected Marquis of Queensbury Rules?

But that’s not what you were asking for, was it? I mean, you mostly wanted to know about our big case — the one that got the Mystery Men noticed. The one that got us into the national newspapers. Okay, sure. My point of view.

At the time — this would be late 1943, going into 1944 — ‘Crack and I worked out of Pinnacle. There was a bunch of industrial plants, and a communications hub making Pinnacle City one big target, so Bunds — German sympathizer cells, you know? — Bunds were crawling all over the place. So we had lots to do and stayed pretty well to ourselves.

That seems to surprise a lot of people. They mention the Liberty Brigade and all those comics and movies where Spycracker and Torpedo teamed up with Solitaire and Diamond, or the Sleuth, the Judge, and Minuteman all worked together to take out some crook war profiteers, or stuff like that. Sorry, but it’s a crock. I mean, I didn’t meet half the Liberty Brigade’s members until F.D.R. called us all in to form it. And as soon as we were formed? Well, it kind of spelled the end of our spy-cracking career. I mean, they sent us on promotional work for the most part — getting folks to buy war bonds and the like. And when you’re a thousand miles from your home town, you have no contacts. No insight. No way of knowing when the Hun was on the move. I think the Liberty Brigade actually fought, like, three times total, and they were special missions.

Anyway — we were in Pinnacle City, Spycracker and I, when we got the scent. Danny came home early, one day — daytimes he spent working down at his hardware store. I was sleeping, with my face pressed into my Reader. Hey, I liked School, even if it was dull as dishwater, but when you spent your days in school and your nights prowling around the city beating up crooks and looking for German Spies, you didn’t get a lot of sleep.

“Up and at ‘em” he said to me, like he usually did. We lived and operated out of a brownstone apartment on the North Side, and we had settled pretty much into a routine.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was gonna cook, but I guess I just went out.”

“Whip up a couple of sandwiches,” he said. “We have to get an early start.” He looked serious.

I wasn’t sure what he had meant. I mean, it had been a few months since we had really taken on a Kraut worth writing home about. We had spent most of our evening prowls taking on street hoods and other small fry. We were too close to the Atlantic to attract too many Japs. “What’s the story,” I asked.

“Let’s get some food, first,” he said. “I want to get down to the 81st Precinct before Jack gets off duty.” Now that meant business, to me. Jack Baumont was a good copper, and a good American. He cut ‘Crack and me a lot of slack. Gave us tips when we needed them. That was good, because even if the average guy pounding a beat loved us, the Commissioner hated us — thought we were a couple of punks at best, a couple of Commies at worst.

That surprises people too, that the Commies were a threat back then. Hey, Stalin might have been our Ally, but that didn’t mean anyone liked him. Even Hitler claimed he was saving the world from the Commies. Like the S.S. could have saved anything.

We wolfed our roast beef sandwiches down, and Danny explained. A couple of guys in dark gray suits had shown up around three thirty in the afternoon, down at the store. They had poked around, looking for blaster caps and that sort of thing. They had asked about places where you could buy nitro, too.

Danny had said he didn’t know, and why would they want nitro anyhow? He played it real dumb, of course.

They said they were prospecting up in the mountains north of Pinnacle. Looking for tin. Nine out of ten Pinnacle citizens might have bought that line. But Danny wasn’t nine out of ten folks. He had been a Civil Engineer before the war broke out, taking the Hardware Store over when he couldn’t join up. Being a small business owner was a lot better cover than having a boss to report to, and Danny had to keep strange hours, sometimes. But while Danny wasn’t a prospector, he was an engineer, and he knew the land around the city. And he knew any mountains near Pinnacle didn’t have a whiff of metal in them. And that spelled trouble, to him.

We had no idea, of course.

After dinner, when the sun went down, we got ready. I loved suiting up. I felt like a real soldier, buckling on my uniform. Mine was brown, with leather boots and red wristbands. And a Mask, of course. And Danny — well, everyone knows the Spycracker, with his Gray bomber jacket, black trousers and leather boots, and his bandanna cowl. We got our billy clubs and snuck down the back stairs we had. A lot of those old Brownstones had connecting basements, so we could come out of an alleyway quite a few blocks from our place. From there, we got into another basement, and made our way to where we kept the roadster. Seem silly? Hey, in 1946 a wacko blew up our garage. If we had kept it near the brownstone, Danny might have died right there.

We got to the station house, and climbed up to the right floor. Love those fire escapes.

Jack was at his desk, of course, He was a lieutenant, and rated a room of his own despite his hanging with disreputable types — that is, us. He was alert, but crime fighting has a way of teaching you to be really quiet, so when ‘Crack said “Kind of a crummy office. I thought you were a Big Shot,” Jack nearly had a coronary.

“Jeez, ‘Crack,” Jack said, “you want to watch it? If someone hears and Walters pokes his head in here, we’re all sunk.” Walters was the Captain, and a real stooge for the Commish.

“Sorry,” ‘Crack said. “Next time I’ll try to quietly scare the pants off you.”

“What do you want?” Jack said. “You don’t come here if you don’t need help.”

“We need a car traced,” ‘Crack said. “License Plate P3Q113.”

“Why?”

“Call it a hunch. It’s a blue sedan, a Ford.”

“You know how many Blue Ford Sedans there are in this City?”

“Just see what you can find on it.”

“Okay — but it’ll take a while.”

‘Crack nodded. “We’ll be back.”

“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t get to say much else — ‘Crack was always three steps ahead of me, when it came to the thought side of all this.

It was about a week later when the word came through. Remember, records weren’t so easy to chase down, back then. It was okay — we were pretty busy. You see, Jack Baumont was a good cop, but not a neat one. And ‘Crack had a tendency to read things he saw, and a memory like you wouldn’t believe. So we spent the time waiting for Jack’s search to get back to us cleaning up Jack’s case list. We didn’t hang around the busts to take the credit (especially since Walters would have been happy to pick us up at the same time), but the local papers and radio always seemed to get a whiff of who was behind our exploits. And in the War Fever, they were willing to paint any Mystery Man in glowing colors. They really ate us up with a spoon, and since they made a to do about us so did the public. Must have driven the Commish crazy.

But that following week, Jack got back to us, by a mail drop. The Car belonged to a G. Kylie, who lived out of a flophouse in the Southtown district. Coincidentally, a Greg Kylie was wanted by the State Police for taking a shot at a Deputy’s car in a chase. So our ‘prospector’ was at least a small time hood.

And a small time hood looking for big time explosives was worth our time, even if he didn’t turn out to be a Kraut.

That night, we headed down to Southtown. Southtown was a real bad part of town — the sort of place the bums had to beg from the hoods. Danny and I didn’t usually go down there — since the chumps we put away in that part of town got off thanks to their friends in the D.A.’s office. But sometimes you have to take what you can get. Besides, Kylie was looking at a State rap — and it would take more than an assistant D.A. throwing the case to get out of that.

When we got in the neighborhood, we hid the Roadster and took to the shadows. Hey, when you’re dressed like a couple of pirates from a bad movie serial, you tend to attract attention. Well, we had it better than the Golden Swashbuckler, I suppose.

The fire escape took us to the right floor. Man, I loved those fire escapes. From this point, it was going to be simple. All we had to do was listen, find out the scoop, and smack around a few Ratzis. No problem, right?

Right. Tell you what — if you ever decide to take up spy cracking as a profession, remember this. The plan’s always more simple than what happens. We expected to see eight or nine hoods in cheap suits. We were right. We expected to see a few Tommy guns and pistols. We were right.

The blonde girl being smacked around by the head rat, we didn’t plan on. We’d seen her around, before. Abigail Austin, her name was. She was good at making our lives hard. When she wasn’t complicating plans, she was a reporter down at WRLC radio.

If you look up her records today, you’d have to look up Abigail Coldman, of course. But you expected that, right?

Anyway, Abby showing up was the first unplanned occurance. The second was the guy doing the smacking.

“Damn,” ‘Crack said, “it’s Muntz.”

Johann Muntz. The toughest Kraut we ever faced. He made those so- called German Mystery Men look like ballet dancers. We’d tangled with him three or four times before that. We knew he was pretty important — one of the Master Spies Hitler gave the most power to. He always seemed to get away.

“Well, Miss Austin,” he said, “I can see your curiousity has gotten the better of you, this time. Pity.”

“What is this?” she asked. “What are you doing here? If you’re going to kill me, you can at least tell me that!” She sounded desperate. I don’t know how she got on the trail of Muntz, but she clearly knew more about what was going on than ‘Crack and I did.

Muntz laughed — that nasty, cold laugh. When I have nightmares, I have nightmares about that laugh. “Miss Austin,” he said, “I am not nearly as foolish as you think I am. Whether I kill you or not, you can forget my telling you anything. Not that you’ll be in any condition to wonder, much longer.” He hit her again. Not a slap, either. He smacked her hard.

That’s when Spycracker shattered the window, jumping in. “Leave her alone!” he shouted, and slammed Muntz in the face with his club.

There’s a few seconds of shock when you’re attacked by surprise. Those few seconds kept us alive more often than I can count. I jumped in too and smashed the first hood I saw in the side of the head with my club. There was kind a wet thud and he was down. I swung over my head and nailed a second one with an overhand swing, and elbowed a third in the belly as he tried to grab me.

And then there were several gunshots, which stopped everything. Some crooks were diving for the floor. “Nein!” Muntz shouted. “All stop, or I shall shoot again!”

I shook off the goon holding me and forced myself up front. Spycracker was facing off with Muntz, who had Abby in a choke hold, with a gun to her head.

“Just let her go, Muntz — it’s all over now,” ‘Crack said. He was tense, I could see, but he always grabbed control of a situation. Heck, the goons weren’t even hammering on us.

“On the contrary, Spycracker,” Muntz spat back at him. “Unless you want me to shoot, you’ll back off now.” Muntz was tense too. Scared.

I’m thinking of those movies again. Right about now, whern the girl’s in danger and the bad guy Nazi — Blitzen or Siegfried, usually. Or Kamikaze — is calling the shots, everyone’s cool. The bad guys are cocky, the good guys are scared but confident, and everyone’s witty as Hell.

Well, right then I was ready to wet my pants, and I think everyone else was, too. Muntz and the Nazis were scared — they didn’t know if we had backup or what. But me and the Nazis — we didn’t matter. This was all Muntz and ‘Crack.

“She doesn’t mean anything to you,” Spycracker said. “You couldn’t care less about her. Let her go — you’ve got me.”

“I don’t care who I’ve got — this is bigger than each of us,” he snapped. “This is the future of your country versus mine. Do you understand that, Spycracker? I cannot — dare not fail!” He sounded serious — as serious as any man I’ve ever heard.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Muntz, and I don’t care. Just let the girl go. Shoot me, if you have to, but let her be. I can’t imagine–”

“Exactly, Spycracker,” Muntz interuppted. “You can’t.” He barked orders to his men in German. I don’t know what he said, but they beat feet out of the room.

“Where are they going,” Spycracker asked. He sounded surprised. Well, so was I. I mean, he had us over a barrel, and he told his men to scram.

“To do what is necessary,” Muntz said. “And I shall join them, as soon as I have killed you both.” He swallowed. “You must understand, Spycracker,” he said, a strange sort of appeal in his voice. “This is beyond territory and Reich, now. This is survival. And I would happily kill every member of your misbegotten breed if it allowed the Fatherland to survive.”

“Muntz–” ‘Crack said — pure fear in his voice. I felt time close in, as the Nazi lifted the gun from Abby’s temple and aimed it at Spycracker.

A police siren wailed outside. Muntz’s eyes flicked that way for a half-second–

‘Crack’s tense muscles exploded into motion, throwing his billy club as hard as he could. It slammed into Muntz’s gun and hand. The gun went off into the ceiling, and Muntz was stumbling back, dropping Abby–

And Spycracker slammed into him with an uppercut that threw him back through the broken window we came in. He jumped up onto the Sill–

And Muntz jumped. Jumped! Three stories, into a pile of trash cans. It was almost sickening.

And the son of a Bitch got up and ran. ‘Crack started to follow, but Muntz — hurt, it seemed — had reached his buddies in their car, and was up on the sideboard. They roared off.

“Damn,” Spycracker said. “We’ll never catch them without knowing where they’re going.”

About then I started breathing again, and I started to shake. If he noticed, ‘Crack hid it. “Take care of Miss Austin,” he said, and started looking over some papers that were on the table. Like I said, he could read real fast and remember.

I moved Abby to a couch in the room, and tried to rouse her. She had a pretty good goose-egg, so I thought it might be hard to wake her up.

“Wait a second,” ‘Crack was saying. “Torp, these are Architechtural drawings — blueprints for Gannet Hall up at Pinnacle University!”

“Huh? What would they want up there?”

“Something big. Something Muntz is willing to die for,” ‘Crack said.

Just then, the cops broke down the door. Jack was there — but so was Walters. “Freeze!” he shouted. “We have you two now!”

“Captain,” Jack shouted.

Walters shook him off. He looked like a kid a Christmas. “When the Commissioner hears we got you–”

“Captain, there’s no time for that,” Spycracker shouted. “Is there anything going on at Gannet Hall at R.L.U.”

“What? If you–”

“Listen to me!” Spycracker yelled, grabbing Walters’s coat. I had never seen Danny so wired in my life. “If there’s something — anything going on there, I have to know right now! Johann Muntz and a pack of German Spies are on their way! If we delay then the Germans will succeed in whatever it is they’re doing. Tell me!”

Walters had gone pale. “The Germans at Gannet… my God–”

“What?” I asked. “What’s the big deal about Gannet Hall?”

Walters stared for a long moment at ‘Crack. It came down to trust.

“The War Office has commendeered the entire building for some scientific experiment,” Walters said. “All I know is that no one — no one is supposed to know about it.”

Spycracker’s eyes grew hard. “Get every available car up there,” he said. “Torpedo and I will try and hold them off.” He let go of Walters and ran for the window. After a beat, I followed.

I don’t know why, but Walters didn’t shoot us. He didn’t even yell after us.

We got to where we had stashed the roadster and tore up towards the Pick-U campus. ‘Crack was the leader and the brains, but that Roadster was so sweet because of the time I had put in on her. Usually, when we went full throttle, I really got into it.

Today I was staring at ‘Crack. He was deadly serious. I mean, he was always serious, but usually he had this attitude, you know? In that ride, he was driving like the whole country depended on it.

I had the sudden feeling that we might die — that ‘Crack thought it would be worth dying, to save America.

We got to Gannet Hall up on Campus. ‘Crack tore off for it, not caring if anyone saw him or not. I followed him, like I always did. But this time, I didn’t have that rush. I didn’t feel like a solider. I didn’t feel like I hero. I was scared. Scared silly. I guess right then I knew what being a real soldier felt like.

Gannet Hall was the science lab. It didn’t look like a War Office project, but then I guess it wouldn’t. This late at night, it was probably locked tight and everything was shut down.

Everything but one lab on the first floor. We could see lights on from underneath blinds.

‘Crack ran straight for it, and so did I. As one, we threw ourselves at the huge windows.

We exploded into the lab, with a million shards of glass flying around us. I have a scar under my eye where a piece cut me. Spycracker had been right — the Germans were there, along with a bunch of guys in suits backed against a wall.

We tore into the krauts like men possessed. There was no snappy jokes, no epitaths for freedom. Just the two of us fighting for our lives, for our country. There was a thunderclap, and my shoulder seemed to explode, but I drove the point of my club into the throat of the gunman. I yanked and threw my knife with my good arm — bobbling the throw, but nailing another Nazi in the face with the hilt. Spycracker was slamming and slamming and slamming around himself. It looked like he was a soldier for King Arthur, pounding everything that moved with his billy club. It splintered in his hands, but he ignored it.

I sank to my knees. My shoulder was bleeding pretty hard, and hurt something fierce. But I could see it was just ‘Crack and Muntz now. Muntz was hurt. Spycracker was exhausted.

“Well… now….” Muntz said. “We will settle this… settle this like men. Me for my country — you for yours. No weapons. Just you and me.”

Without saying a word, Spycracker coldcocked Muntz. Like I said, he was the dirtiest fighter alive.

But he was still standing.

“My god,” one of the Men said. “You stopped them. Two men against ten, and you stopped them!”

Just then I recognized the man. It was Senator Rothchild — our representative in the capital, and one of F.D.R.’s confederates. There were others there — including a man with short red hair, whose face I recognized instantly, even as he leaned over me and worked on my wounded shoulder.

“You — you’re Arthur Wallace. You’re Mastermind.” The Smartest Man in America, they said.

“True,” Mastermind said. “And you’re a young man with a flesh wound. You should be all right.”

“Senator,” another man — an intense fellow with black hair — said angrily, “I thought you said Pinnacle was secure.”

“Well Jeez, Oppie,” a heavy-set man said, coming to the Senator’s defense.

The sirens of the police cars were getting closer. “We have to go,” Spycracker said. “We’re wanted vigilantes.”

“The boy can’t be moved that fast,” Mastermind said. “Torpedo, isn’t it?” I nodded. “You have to be careful.”

“We don’t have time,” Spycracker said.

“Wait,” the one fellow — Oppie — said. “Hide them in the records room. We can keep the police out of there.” They moved us in the records room, and shut and locked the door.

Great. A room full of files. At least it shared a light switch with the main lab. I looked around. So was Spycracker.

I picked up one of the files, trying to ignore the pain in my shoulder. I tried to read through it — it looked like it was written in Greek, but I tried to follow it. “Hey ‘Crack,” I whispered, joking. “Look at this — the Germans tried to storm the place, and these guys are studying hard water.”

“Hard water?” ‘Crack asked. He walked over, and looked at the file. “No, heavy water,” he said.

“What’s that?” I asked, but ‘Crack was ignoring me. He was looking through different sheets of paper.

Like I said, ‘Crack was an Engineer, if not a scientist. And he read fast, and remembered what he read. And while the scientists were outside, holding the cops off, ‘Crack read a lot of sheets of paper.

“What is it?” I asked, finally.

‘Crack set a piece of paper down, and leaned against the wall. He sank to his knees. “My God,” he said. “My God.”

“What?”

But ‘Crack didn’t answer me. Not that night. Not ever. Today I can make a guess at what he glimpsed. I can make a guess as to what Project we had saved. But I don’t really think that was it.

I think Spycracker had seen a glimpse of a world where he wasn’t worth a damn.

That was our finest night. Senator Rothchild got our names in the national papers — heroes and Mystery Men who stopped the Nazis from gaining vital, classified research and information. F.D.R. listened to the story and decided that we could be a real morale boost. He called us up and named us the Liberty Brigade, and it was more or less over. We were celebrities, crossing the country — a bunch of guys and girls in costumes, and put on stunt shows. We had a few more adventures, but by then the Brigade was Yesterday’s news.

And what did you expect. Who cared about the Costume Party, when real heroes — near Gods — were storming over the Axis Powers. I had a good left hook, but the Quick could disable an entire Platoon of Krauts in an eyeblink. While Minuteman took down a Nazi Madman with three pounds of dynamite, the Wave was winning the war in the Pacific.

We had our little victories, of course. But it was, for all intents and purposes, over. We were forgotten.

In 1946, after the Judge was shot, most of us hung up our masks. Danny got married, my Dad came home. He found out what I had done during the war and, aside from an argument with Uncle Danny, never mentioned it again. He never mentioned his own service, either. He was a machine gunner, but he left it behind.

Danny sent a letter to the A.P. and the President, expressing that he was in good health, but entering retirement. He made page four of the Pinnacle Times.

When I went to college at Columbia, I kept it up. Broke up a crime ring or two. But when you’re the only one at the costume party, you feel foolish. Besides, Danny was always the brains. I had to stumble into criminal plots to find them. So Torpedo went away too.

Finally, in 1953, the last Mystery Man — the Golden Swashbuckler, who had also been the first Mystery Man — retired. It was over.

Except later that year, Spycracker and Torpedo smashed onto movie screens for the first time. We became seralized, fictionalized — cult heroes. Not bad, I guess.

And, in the late fifties, there was actually another Spycracker and Torpedo. This one was one of those super guys. He had a mace, not a club, and he was damn strong — able to lift a motorcycle over his head. They fought the commies for a few months, and then disappeared.

And that was that. I don’t have any more to say.

MUSICAL CUE

Dorian Cross: In 1946, Spycracker disappeared. But Daniel Coldman and his wife Abigail did not disappear. They moved from Pinnacle City to Vermont, where Daniel Coldman opened another hardware store. They spent many years in retirement, until 1970, when Daniel Coldman passed away in his sleep. His nephew, Ronnie Coldman, died in an automobile accident in 1972. Abigail Coldman died in 1988.

For Sentinels of Liberty, the Hero at War, I’m Dorian Cross. Good night.

I wrote for it, and I was an assistant editor. The editor in chief and publisher was Greg Fishbone, an intellectual property lawyer and cool person who put the money up for the magazine. I should digress and mention Greg has a book coming out in a couple of months, and you should all own a copy.

The magazine didn’t last long. While the concept was sound — comic book sized magazines with some black and white art but mostly devoted to prose stories, sold in comic book shops alongside the comics — it launched right at the big comic bust and never had much of a chance. Though some issues (not all of them, but some) are still available at second hand shops if you’re lucky.

I launched with two serials — one an actual serial called Daybreak in Dark City which I’ll get around to putting on here one of these weeks, and the other a series of collected short stories called The Home Front. These were the stories of the mystery men of the twenties and thirties, gathered together by President Roosevelt into one grand force of heroes who… traveled around the country putting on a show to convince people to buy war bonds. See, there were these actual superhumans who were taking the war to Hitler and the Pacific, or breaking up spy rings and the like. The guys and girls who were just putting on costumes and fighting crime? Not so much.

Is this my best writing? Not really. I’ve learned a few things since 1996. But for all intents and purposes, this is the first story I was ever paid for. It’s fitting, perhaps, that this was the story of the first of the mystery men in this setting. It’s called “My White Plume,” and if it’s not the best thing I’ve written, it’s also not the worst and I’m fond of it.

Enjoy.

*** *** *** ***

October the Thirty First,
Nineteen Hundred and Fifty Three
118 Wood Crescent Drive
North Albert Pines, New York

Her Grace, Lady Strathmore
Eaglesnest Arms
Strattford-on-Avon, Warwickshire
England

My Very Dear Juliet,

I know how odd it must be to hear from me again after all of this time. After all, it is not as though our intimate period was advisable or even explainable. This is not to say I have had some blue-haired attack of conscience — I still reject the very concept of immorality, much less immorality bound within the expression of love. But the circumstances of our parting were far from happy. I suppose that makes my letter strange to your eyes.

But then, you and I are well acquainted with the strange.

I am writing to inform you of news which no other person knows. I have no intention of making this news public — I trust I have made enough of an impact in my somewhat grandiose career that the gist of what I am telling you will become known far and wide without my assistance.

Put simply, I am finished. Exuent, no bows.

I am quite serious, Juliet. I have seen the future of this age, and I believe it can find itself without me. I shall spend my declining years tending roses outside of my home, occasionally dueling an errant paperboy. We have moved through the excesses of the Twenties, the privations of the Thirties and the horrors of the Forties, and have a golden age spreading before us. Our enemies at home and abroad are weak, our two nations are strong. This is a world that no longer needs an old man dressed like Douglas Fairbanks causing trouble for the criminal element and constabulary alike.

I am tired, my Juliet. So very tired.

With age comes a certain uselessness, I am afraid. Particularly in my chosen profession. When the Fox can outrun the Hound, the Hound needs to be turned in and allowed to rest. The Foxes seem to get younger with every passing year.

And I find myself spending more and more time in yesterday. That’s age, isn’t it? The very definition of too old is when you live in the past and not the future. These days, the past is all that I have. All that I want. It started with illness, it ends with decrepitude.

Did I ever tell you of the illness that grew out of my laughable Military experience? I think not. It was some years before we met, in what they now call the First World War, but what we just called the Great War.

The War had been on for some time when I enlisted. It was Nineteen Eighteen, and I was seventeen years old. My esteemed father went with me to the recruiting station to swear — at my request — that I was eighteen years of age. I had finished with my secondary schooling, and I hungered to take the battle to Germany. I knew if I did not join up right then, my mother would pressure me into going to College and that would end any chance to serve.

Father understood. But then, he always understood me. We were two of a kind. Adrian Wainwright and son, Senior and Junior.

I will not go into detail of Boot Camp. You have no doubt read accounts that are more or less right. It was dirty, unfair, and well nigh impossible. But we were not training to march in parade — we were going to war. And it being so late, most of the others I was with were draftees, not volunteers. So the sergeants were dedicated to our training, which is to say sadistic.

Not that it matters much, since two weeks before graduation I and fully three fourths of my platoon contracted Yellow Fever. Most of us died. I did not — but oh how I wished to.

An infirmary bunk is not happy place. And covered in sweat, with an itching just below the surface of my skin, I felt myself condemned to an eternal Hell of twitching, squirming, shaking. I was terrified. And I was ashamed… sick in bed while my country was at war.

And by the time the fog lifted from my head, by the time my arms began to regain a modicum of strength, November eleventh had come and gone. We had won. The Kaiser was in ruins, Germany was decimated.

And I, newly eighteen, was humiliated. I had lost my chance to serve.

You do not know what that means to a fellow’s pride. So many Americans killed, so many Americans injured, and so many proud men marching home as heroes, their spines straight, their stories bold. And me? I joined the army and lost fifteen pounds, crawling home to Mother a scarecrow.

It marked me, I think.

College came and went — a respectable degree in English, and then studies towards a Law Degree. But you remember that. It was 1923, and I was a twenty two year old second year the night I met Lady Juliet Smythe-Carstairs.

I close my eyes, Juliet, and I can see you standing there. Your dress was grey and very conservative, but daringly high in the hem — knees, I think. That was the closest you ever came to becoming a flapper, as I recall. You were a shiny eyed dreamer. So beautiful, I could never begin to describe it.

And I see I’ve dripped ink in my enthusiasm. Alas, my sweet Lady, your cavalier is somewhat smudged. Roderick — a boy who comes ’round on Thursdays and does for me around the house — insists that with all my correspondence I should invest in a typewriter. But I shan’t. I could never stand the things — all clattering and banging and metal and gears. Why not power it by steam and drive it to town? There is something elegant in the unbroken flow of the written word — hammered type makes it merely mundane.

It was October the eighteenth, the first time I met you. You were with your Father, as you often were, watching over him as he conducted his affairs. My Father was his solicitor — they were partners in a number of things.

I was clerking, as I recall, when you came into the room with Lord Smythe-Carstairs. You thought I was the office boy. I think you snubbed me, but who could tell? One look at you and you could have taken a shot at me and I would never have batted an eye.

And I am no doubt embarrassing you, all these years too late to protest my love and affections. Forgive me, Juliet. It is not to deny you the happiness you and his Grace the Right Honorable Lord Strathmore have found. Not that I can say I much care for his Lordship, but that is your affair, not mine. But I want you to understand who I was then, so that perhaps you can understand who I am now.

There were two dinners where our parents made pleasant conversation, and I was made the man who held your arm and danced with you. To be polite, of course. “Addie, do try to be charming,” Mother said. Try to be charming indeed — I adored both those dinners and your company. You endured mine with a smile, it’s true. I remember holding you in a waltz — it was a touch ribald, with more than a little jazz creeping into the music as it played, but you and I were young and in a way yearned to be free of our parents’ conventionality.

I remember at the end of the second dinner, dancing with you as our families watched. You were a blonde vision, as always. I felt weak with love. It was the twenty-ninth of October, and I was trying to decide whether I should steal a kiss.

“You seem tense, Addie,” you said to me, teasing. “Do I frighten you?”

“Not at all,” I protested. “Far from it!”

“Oh Addie,” you said, sighing. “Try not to ruin a perfectly nice dance with passion.”

“I apologize if I offend,” I said.

“That’s the problem, Addie. You never offend. You couldn’t offend. You haven’t got it in you to offend. You’re so perfectly straight, you can barely bend.”

“You wound me,” I said lightly, though inside I felt in a whirl.

“Well, someone should, Addie,” you replied, laughing, not realizing I was crushed by your words. I was hopelessly in love, and yet you found me quite the bore. I felt foolish — like an idiot child, tolerated because he had been trained not to knock over the china.

“Addie,” you said after a long, somewhat awkward moment, “you’re not going to be maudlin all night, are you? Not over me?”

“I had considered it,” I said, trying to make a joke.

“Oh don’t, Addie. Please. It will make me rather cross — and we can’t have that. It’s hardly your fault you’re so narrow. It’s just–”

“Just what?”

“I don’t know… I want something more — I want a Gallant. A Swashbuckler! A Scarlet Pimpernel to sweep me off my feet and carry me away, deaf to my protests. I want something more than my dreary proper life. Not an American Lawyer with wealth and the Social Register.”

“I see,” I said, my mood quite ruined. You protested, but we did not dance again that night. I thought we would never dance again. And, with hindsight, I think perhaps you were as unhappy as I, though at the time I didn’t see it.

Boring. Of course I was boring. I had lost my chance to be more than a starched shirt and a hard worker. I had nothing but books and papers. Nothing to mark me, to give me distinction. I thought all this and more as I went home with my parents, to see them on their way before returning to the dormitory.

Father hung behind, telling Ellis to drive us on. “Are you well,” he asked me.

I told him my troubles, and he laughed. “Adrian,” he said to me, “you mustn’t let a salvo be a death blow. She must be interested, or she wouldn’t tell you why she wasn’t interested. You follow?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, I’m not surprised. Listen, your mother told me the same thing, when we were both younger than you and your Young Lady are.”

My eyebrows shot up. “But you seem so happy,” I said.

“We are — let’s just say I learned to be exciting. Listen, Adrian — you and Juliet are both going to be at Elton Barkley’s Masquerade on Halloween. If she wants a bravo — be a bravo. Show her you can be exciting.”

I smiled. “All right,” I said.

The sabre was easy enough to get — it was my Grandfather’s Civil War sabre. He was in the Navy, commanding a frigate, as I recall. I got hold of that, and added tight blue pants tucked into those ridiculous pirate boots, an open white shirt, and the somewhat floppy hat with the white plume on my head. And of course, the red kerchief about my eyes to hide my identity until midnight — especially from you. I was quite certain I was going to look the idiot, but what man in love doesn’t play the fool? And better you had a chance to be charmed by your bravo before learning it was boring old Addie.

I boned up on the role — a task made easier by my literary background and the fact that I read extremely quickly. I read that Scarlet Pimpernel you loved — no offense, my darling, but it bored me to tears. In the years since, I’ve read so many other Romances — Dumas, and his Three Musketeers, Twenty Years Later, and so on and so on. Tremendously better, in my opinion. Everything a Gallant should be. But I hadn’t the chance to read those books before that Halloween night.

I had just enough time to read The Scarlet Pimpernel… *and *Cyrano de Bergerac.

I was utterly enchanted. I identified, you see, with Cyrano. Cast off from love despite his noble heart, forced to stand and watch as others reaped the rewards, and an utter hero. I soaked up every line, letting my Legal texts fall to the wayside. And to this day I can remember that last, wondrous line in Cyrano’s life. “Take from me my honor, my dignity, my money and my life — I shall still, forever, have my white plume!”

His white plume. The symbol of his command… the symbol of his honor — his very panache… he would never surrender it, not to save himself, not in any man’s name. It was enthralling, to a boy trying to be a man. So though I looked the part of D’Artagnan, in my heart I hoped to present Cyrano.

Fate? Perhaps.

Of course, you remember that night. And I remember you. Dressed in a ball gown from King Arthur’s time, you transformed from Lady Juliet into the shining Princess of the May. As I entered the hall, I saw you instantly. I nodded to you, and your eye was caught, and you smiled. I started up Barkley spiralling stairs, to the upper balcony… the better to intrigue you….

And then, of course, the ruffians attacked.

Attacked is the wrong word. They just stormed in, knocked over a table, and held weapons on everyone in the open ballroom. The entire roomful — Barkley, in his stage magician’s outfit, the revellers, clowns and so forth, myself… and you.

And there were five of them, in cheap suits and cheap hats. They carried Thompson Submachineguns and looked smug. If you think about it, it was a perfect tableaux.

“Barkley!” one of them called. “Our Boss, he don’t like what your paper been printing! We think you better rethink your editorials!”

“You thugs!” Barkley shouted back. “You tell Boss Tollifer–”

“Who says we’re from Mister Tollifer?” the lead crook asked, a too-innocent look on his face. “Boys — round ‘em up!”

With guns pointing at the guests, there wasn’t much to be done — and no one foolish enough to try doing it. Well, no one until one of those hoods grabbed you by the neck, that is. He hauled you into the middle of the room, terror on your face. A dreamer about to be awakened to harsh reality. The breath caught in my throat as he pushed you. I felt enraged, and utterly useless, halfway up a staircase because I was trying to be coy.

Gods, I loved you, Juliet.

“That’s a pretty necklace,” he snapped, ripping your pearls off hard enough to draw blood and tossing it to a confederate. I saw that blood… saw the look of pain and fear on your face, and for the tiniest of seconds, your eyes met mine.

And something snapped in me. Something I couldn’t begin to describe. It was more than fear — more than rage. It was like a chick cracking the shell for the first time.

To be truthful, it was the moment in my life when I was at my stupidest.

Not thinking for a second of what I was doing, I leapt onto the banister in a crouch, and threw myself forward. I managed, through the fortune Fate provides to idiots, to land on the ruffian and not land on you, my darling. The impact was enough that I felt his bones shift below me. There were a few scattered screams and cries of joys as I rolled off him. His friends came after me, bringing their firearms to bear, but I was a madman — charging them instead of retreating. A submachinegun is of little use close in, and a mobster doesn’t expect resistance when he’s holding one. They didn’t fire.

They were tough, there is no doubt. You didn’t become an enforcer in Organized Crime without being tough. But for the first time in my life, I was at the advantage — I was younger than all of them, and I was well trained in hand to hand combat by my army taskmasters. He had taught us well — and I was as young as anyone who had gotten that training. An elbow to the ear took one down behind me. A punch to the sternum took down another. A third swung the butt of his Thompson, slamming my side while the fourth — the one with your necklace — ran.

I grappled with that third one, causing him to drop the machine gun. As we spun around the room, gripping each other’s arms, I remember briefly wishing I had a weapon.

You will recall that I did remember the sabre, just after the hood hurled me off of himself. What you didn’t realize then is I remembered the sabre because I got tangled in the sheath. Still, whatever reason, right? He leapt at me just as I drew and thrust — using the thing like a bayonet, that being what I was trained with.

When pierced with steel, the human body goes into shock almost immediately. I struck in the abdomen — a nasty, but not fatal wound, if medical attention were brought to bear. There was a gasp as he fell and I took to my feet. I could hear the last of them starting a car outside. I should probably have let him go, but he was the one with your necklace. So I ran to the window — it being closer — and smashed through, landing on my feet by chance and not cutting myself in the bargain. I could see the roadster pulling out, and I threw myself onto it, hanging onto the running board. I was still clutching my sabre so I swung it around into the windscreen, smashing it in and showing the malcontent with shards. He swerved and road up onto the curb — I dropping off into a roll that got my white shirt dirty and wet.

Retrieving my fallen blade I ran to the car, but he was unconscious with blood on his forehead from his steering column. I retrieved your necklace and ran for the house.

I burst through the front doors. There was another gasp, and people fell back away as I strode into the room. Now understand — I was going to go to you, take you in my arms, and tell you everything. Tell you your boring lawyer had fought off five gangsters to protect you and return your necklace. Reap the rewards, as it were. And I could see adoration in your eyes as I approached, and I knew you would be mine.

But Cyrano juxtaposed himself in the way, at the very last moment.

You are familiar with the play, I trust? Cyrano, in the very beginning, closes down a play because an actor offends his aesthetic sense. He tosses away months of salary to recompense the actors in a grand gesture. He duels and composes poetry all at once to defend his actions, and then, after offered rewards and accolades, takes but one grape and a kiss of the hand of a lovely girl.

That was panache! That was a gesture — one that was remembered and lauded throughout Paris to the point that the murder of a nobleman was excused by the King, who was far more impressed than angry. that was the difference between yielding himself… and keeping his white plume.

So I stopped eight feet from you, stared you in the eyes, nodded slightly, said “your Servant, My Lady,” and tossed you the necklace with a flick of the wrist, the smallest of smiles on my face.

And in your eyes, I could see it had been the right choice.

I could hear police sirens — and it hit me that the scandal of striking down five of Boss Tollifer’s cohorts could prove both financially and physically dangerous for my Father. So I bid you all good night and leapt out the window again. And your voice — your sweet sweet voice — followed me as I jumped. “Good Night, my Gallant Swashbuckler,” you cried.

No greater feeling have I ever had, sweet Juliet. That was purest panache.

It was intoxicating. No one knew who I was, no one could finger my father or I, but a society legend had been born. And as I made my way back to the Dormitory, I knew I wanted to continue.

I enlisted my father, of course. He had seen the story in the newspapers — with Barkley’s paper leading the way, of course. He was the one who suggested a rapier in place of that naval sabre. I was more accustomed to thrusting weapons anyhow, and my Grandfather’s weapon was meant to be ceremonial. He and I together managed to procure the special rapier I ended up using.

You see, I recognized that I could be killed, and I wanted to get every advantage I possibly could. But the essence of the Swashbuckler was to make it all seem effortless. And I certainly didn’t want to stab all of my opponents — of all the places I wanted to finish my career, the electric chair was not one of them.

So we managed to have my famous golden rapier fabricated. It was rigged with a special battery system that delivered a powerful shock when I depressed a hidden stud. I trained hard as a fencer as well, I had to be absolutely certain I could use the weapon I carried.

I kept my ear to the street — using my position in society and at University to advantage. I let ‘Adrian Wainwright, Junior’ hear things, and build a case.

I wanted to find some form of evidence I could use against Reginald Tollifer, the so called ‘Boss’ of Knight City. I knew I would have to start off small. I did that, by tracking a few of Tollifer’s enforcers and bringing them down. I had added my cloak to my ensemble, so the look on the faces of my quarry as I swept from the Fire Escape into them was priceless. I stuck quickly, keeping a light patter as I did so, and made enough noise to attract the police.

The golden rapier worked beautifully. One ruffian later described the sword as ‘hitting like a sledgehammer.’ During the Second World War, one report had it hitting like a shell from a sixteen inch gun. I personally think it’s mostly the surprise that strikes so hard, as the charge isn’t all that potent.

At any rate, there were three malefactors striking at an old man when I swept upon them, and then there were three bodies on the ground. And I? I was already leaving, my heart pounding with the rush of the moment.

“Who are you?” the aged shopkeeper asked.

“The Gallant Swashbuckler!” I cried back, and off I went.

I never told you that story, my sweet Lady. I never told you that was to be my name. The name you gave me. When I read the Knight City Chronicle the next day, with the Headline “MYSTERIOUS GOLDEN SWASHBUCKLER SAVES INNOCENT,” I was caught between chagrin and bemusement. The old man remembered it wrong, and once the public had the name ‘Golden Swashbuckler’ in their heads, that was that.

It hardly mattered — from there, my life expanded into the most glorious adventure. Those first three years were spent nibbling away at Tollifer, until he came down with an incredible crash. It was wonderful — not bound by the rules the police were, I could force Tollifer to overplay his own hand and thereby gain the evidence the police needed.

And when it happened, Tollifer was a broken man. I didn’t play by the rules, you see. His world was one of rules — the mob had their rules, the police had theirs, and they both fulfilled every expectation. I came in without rules, and it shattered him. I was there when the switch was thrown, and I swear to you, Juliet, he looked relieved. And when Tollifer fell, no one ever quite replaced him.

From there, my adventures turned to the bizarre. The strangest cast of misanthropes ever known paraded through Knight City, stumbling across my path. I would get a call from Captain Barnard — a contact who trusted me enough not to arrest me. Or perhaps you would stumble into a situation that was somewhat shady, and mention it to your unendurably dull swain — though you never seemed to try to leave me behind. Or else my Father would learn something in his office. Or something like that. Regardless of how I got involved, I would find myself opposing Mesmer the Magnificent, or the Claw. And there was Dark Shade, Midnight Molly — the twisted rejects that preyed on society, only to be opposed by society’s champion. They appeared and I knocked them down.

It was like we were drawn to each other — these folks never appeared in New York City or Boston — but Knight City was another matter. They appeared in Knight City, and they appeared in California’s Waterside City, where my associate the Sleuth worked.

Eventually, the Twenties ended on as dark a note as they had been bright in the beginning. When the Thirties came, and the Depression with them, I finally told you everything, and we discussed marriage. You were so accepting, sweet Juliet… accepting, but uneasy. I remember that so well.

A decade had passed since that dance where a little girl had talked of dreams, and the woman you had grown into wanted something solid — something real. You wanted that Lawyer who would never offend. Well, I was a Lawyer all right, but I was famous for my zeal in defending the innocent. Adrian Wainwright had enemies the same way as the Golden Swashbuckler did. I had become the model of your dreams… but in the sadness of the Depression, you wanted the reality you had once scorned.

But you loved me, and I you, and we were together and stayed that way. We broke all the rules, you and I, surrendering ourselves to each other. But I was not willing to surrender the Golden Swashbuckler. He was too much a part of me. The best part of me, sweet Lady, even today.

And he was needed far too much of the times we lived in. Before, he had been an adventure for the people — another manifestation of the excitement of the Twenties. But in time of poverty and hopelessness, he became something more. The Golden Swashbuckler represented one willing to stand up for the downtrodden. Someone who cared about everyone, and would as happily defend a bindlestiff as a well-to-do man. The people loved him — they needed him. They needed that symbol. The police still wanted to arrest him, but no citizen would let that happen. And the criminals kept coming out to fight, too. New and worse ones, as well as the old crowd — Mesmer always seemed to escape, like so many others didn’t.

But the blade never stopped, and neither did I. The people knew that and clung to me — clung to my standard. Clung to the belief that they could have our spirit, they could have our wealth, but we would never, ever surrender our Panache! We held our white plume against the night, and let it light our way.

Even today, I feel so passionate for it, I could cry, my lovely.

But by 1938, with the war raging in your beloved Britain, you needed something more than an adventurer. You railed at me — you wanted love and comfort and someone to hold you. And I? I could see the winds of war blowing here, and I knew I had to be a part of it. It seemed so much larger than the love of two people.

And so you flew away. To England. And ultimately to your husband, who was that boring man you needed then.

And I? I convinced myself the passions of a twenty-two year old boy had nothing to do with a thirty- seven year old man, and pretended I had not torn my soul in two.

And then it came. December 7, 1941. I stood my ground, demanding a chance to fight abroad. I railed at officers and enlistment recruiters… but they all refused me. Now I was too old. Too young to fight in one war, too old to fight in the next. It was unfair — almost a joke. But the Golden Swashbuckler wasn’t too old, and so I turned my efforts to fighting the Nazi threat here at home. The Sleuth did the same… and with us stood our children — the brightly colored Mystery Men of the Forties. Minuteman and Patriot Pete, Nightstick, the Judge, Solitaire and Diamond, Stiletto and Claymore, Six Gun Sam and the All American Lad — a veritable parade of men and women, boys and girls. Costumed warriors fighting what war they could. And their undisputed king was Spycracker, who fought with the spirit of youth tempered by the wisdom of maturity.

And overseas? My God… Exemplar, The Quick, Phalanx and Windrider — gods walking among men. Beings of power the likes of which we’d never seen. It gave us hope — if the Quick could stand against a platoon, I could stand against some fifth columnists by God!

It was 1944 when our fight truly changed, though. President Roosevelt offered us amnesty, as you’ll recall. Offered the Mystery Men a chance to come to Washington and be recognized. And we were. I can remember that meeting so well — twelve of us crowded into a room. I noticed they gave me a wide berth. The Sleuth also. Nightstick told me later that meeting the Golden Swashbuckler was far more daunting than meeting the President.

President Roosevelt outlined a tour of duty for his so-called Liberty Brigade — a collection of the Mystery Men who would encourage War Bond sales, scrap drive duties — and morale. He said we represented something to the common man. We represented the idea that one man could rise up and fight back against Nazi Oppression — that one man could carry the banner of Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness into Germany and beyond.

We signed up, of course. I would have signed twice, if they had let me.

The tour was in many ways wonderful. We were comrades, occasionally being sent on missions by the War Office to protect American interests. Oddly enough, our cities remained safe — any time the Nazis or just my old antagonists came out to attack, they attacked where the Liberty Brigade already was. But that didn’t happen too often. Mostly we had a preset stage show. Nightstick, Solitaire, Diamond, the Judge and Six Gun Sam would do a stunt show, the Sleuth, Spycracker and I would all give speeches, we would all rally the war fever, and then we would meet the crowd. The children had another show, as I recall. There were always armed gendarmes surrounding us, which was hilariously funny to me — the times there was trouble, the mystery men invariably reacted before our guards did.

And there was the odd feeling of companionship. The children had peers for once. The adults had people they could relax and talk shop with. It was a grand time, really. It made a lonely business much nicer.

Really, I felt best about being the Golden Swashbuckler than I had since you had left my side, Juliet. Since I pushed you away. Though seeing them… seeing some of them pair off… well, I felt your loss more acutely. Especially after receiving news of your marriage.

When the war ended, most of them retired. A few hung on for a while, but the late forties were not much of a time for mystery men. The legends of the Second World War were the ones who took the battle to Hitler. The ones who could lift tanks. And they weren’t really needed any more. The spy rings were gone, the saboteurs didn’t have a cause.

And I found people were moving away from me, as well. Children adored me — as they adored the Lone Ranger, or the Shadow, or the Green Hornet, or any other Saturday Morning Serial or weekend radio program. My father was gone. My mother never knew my other career. My courtroom days had passed and I spent most of my time overseeing the Junior Partners and staffers. Even my opponents stopped crossing my path so often. For the first time in my life, I had to go looking for them.

In 1949, the Sleuth retired, flying out to Knight City to see me and talk about it. I had stayed in pretty close contact with most of the Liberty Brigade — they were, after all, my associates. I showed him my then new home in North Albert Pines, where I lived quietly by myself. He told me he was tired, and he thought his day had passed, as everyone does.

But I still haunted the streets of Knight City. I still fought the good fight. And if it got harder, well, adversity fired the soul. It was still a glorious adventure.

It was last week when I could see the call of age as well. Almost fifty three years old, and still dressing up in a costume. Truly it didn’t bother me, though I felt more like a guardian than a predator. And then it happened.

I came across some contacts who seemed dazed, acting strangely. Some modicum of investigation showed a face from the past was behind it.

Yes, my lovely Lady Strathmore. Mesmer the Magnificent had returned.

I took to the case, my soul on fire. I felt right. I felt as though I could ring up my father and solicit his advice… or walk into my old rooms in the city and you would be there. I felt twenty-five again. I tracked him through his confederates. I led him a merry chase. I dogged his every step, and in the end I burst into his chambers like a grey lion closing for the kill.

He sat behind a table, with a bottle of white bordeaux and two glasses. He raised one to me. “Golden Swashbuckler,” he said to me.

“I know not now what your game is–” I started, blade rising high.

“Oh my dear enemy, this time there is no game at all,” he replied. “Take your wine and sit. We have never sat and talked, you and I. Not really.”

I watched him… and realized he was serious. Tentatively, I sat, ever mindful of his Hypnotic eye. But he never tried it.

“You know,” he said, “I’m not wanted for anything, right now. I served my time and am free.”

“I do know that,” I said.

“Your illicit contacts on the force?” he asked.

“Actually, I walked in the front door. I’ve had license for some time. Since ‘44.”

He chuckled. “It doesn’t seem right, somehow.”

I thought about that. “You know,” I said, “it doesn’t.”

We sat for a long time.

“Thank you,” he said, finally.

“For what?” I asked.

“For making the chase so damned interesting,” he replied. “At first, I thirsted for wealth and power. But then — then I realized it was the joust. The fight. The conflict.

“I’m too old for it now, Swashbuckler. But I wanted one last go around — to see how long I could hold you at bay, before you slipped the noose around me and took me in again.”

He saluted me with his wine. “This ends it,” he said. “I have committed no crime. And if I had, you would have won. Thank you for a delightful career.”

We drank. After a time, I asked what he would do.

“What any war-dog does when he’s retired. I’m going to rest, Swashbuckler. Sleep.” We chatted a time, and relived some of the more memorable moments. He asked about you, and seemed sad that I didn’t know. Finally, we shook hands and I took me home, and stared at the clock for a long time. And knew then what the Sleuth had known before.

And so, tonight, on the thirtieth anniversary of the night you looked so beautiful in your gown… thirty years almost to the minute after I saw that look in your eyes as I tossed you your pearls, I do pen this note, and say goodnight. Thirty years is a long time in one business. Perhaps I shall find a new career now.

Enclosed you will find my uniform, cloak, boots, whip and rapier. They were always yours in spirit.

In closing, allow me to say that I have always loved you, and shall do so until the end of my days. You were my Roxanne to the end, sweet Lady Juliet. And I shall always be grateful to you for this glorious life.

And Juliet — I sleep, I rest, and I grow old. I watch as my strong arm, my keen eye, and my taut muscles give way to age. I find myself passing into that dark twilight. But Sweet Lady Juliet, there is one thing not in this package to you.

Age can take me. They all can take me. They can have my wealth, my breath, my sight and my life. But no matter what happens… I still — forever — have my white plume.

Your willing servant,

Adrian Wainwright, Jr., Esq.

I assume.

It’s in my style. It’s in my files. It’s definitely one of mine from the Kinko’s years. And I have absolutely no memory of it.

It’s not impossible it was something I discussed with my friend Mason Kramer, or perhaps my friend Chris Angelini, or also perhaps my friend Gary Olson, as they were all writing for Superguy at the time — as was I, as has been detailed elsewhere — and both dealt quite a lot with dreamers and dreamweavers.

Though this doesn’t seem to be about the same thing at all.

I don’t think that’s where I intended to stop the story. I assume I meant to write more. But I have no idea. I don’t remember this at all.

So. I pass it to you, for your thoughts and impressions. Should I pursue this one? Should I not? Should I have… pie?

Let me know. And please enjoy.

*** *** *** ***

And then Michael woke up, and it was all a dream.

He swallowed a few times, drowning in the feel of it, noise forcing his eyes open in the dim haze of morning. He swam against it, fighting to hold himself in the dream, his arms around Elissa and his friends close at hand. The smells and touches and tastes fresh in his head and so real, feeling the bitter disorientation he always felt when waking up, but so much more this morning. Where was he, and who….

“–assic Rock keeps coming here at D101 FM. That was Don Henley, with the Boys of Summer. We’ll have four more in a row, right after this!”

“Bob, I’m worried about Tim,” the radio was saying near Michael’s head.

“What about him,” a male voice Michael had heard before on radio commercials asked. “Has he been playing with matches again?”

“No – but he’s been buying his garden hose from a store that isn’t Walter’s on Thirty-third….”

Michael slapped at the radio, missing it and shoving a book over onto it, which muffled it a little. He turned and slapped his feet onto the floor, stumbling through the grey light for the bathroom, the tile floor, the cramped shower.

Michael had made it past shampoo and rinse and was firmly into repeat before he could really claim to be awake. The dream had seemed so real. He was fighting to remember, to hold the details close. Elissa’s face and form, wearing an autumn dress of gold and red….

Michael walked back out into the studio apartment, stepping around the treadmill and grabbing his pants off the hook on the chimney. The daily routine far from wars and quests and beautiful wives stretched its arms out and took hold of him, guiding him to underwear and socks and a clean shirt for the day. It knew to make the cup of morning tea he always drank and the piece of toast he always ate. In the background, Meat Loaf was singing about what he wouldn’t do for love. The radio would play for two hours unless it were turned off. At night he could set its sleep timer to play for ninety minutes to lull him to sleep. It knocked him out shook him awake. One-stop shopping.

Her hair had been strawberry blond, and it had played over her back in waves. He remembered sticks in it. They had been in the wilderness, riding hard along the path, with Hector running before them and the old man behind. Who was that old man? He was important, somehow….

The office was usually loud in the morning. Jack and Alice shouting over the ringing of the phone while Anton ran photocopies and Gillian tried to route calls and people where they needed to be to keep the business rolling. It was the way it went here.

“You look real perky this morning,” Anton said, glancing up. “What’s the matter? Bowels keep you up all night?”

“You know, I could really do without bowel references this time of the day,” Michael answered, setting his bookbag on his desk and slapping the power button on his keyboard.

“Mine was terrible,” Anton persisted. “I think that fish we had at lunch yesterday was a little undercooked. I remember mentioning it to Gillian, and she said that hers was dry if anything, but I couldn’t see that. I mean, really–”

“I had the teryaki chicken,” Michael said absently.

“So really – where are you today,” Anton asked, leaning over the desk, mockups in hand.

Michael shook his head, clearing it a little. “Sorry,” he said. “I woke up in the middle of a dream. It’s hard to shake it off.”

“Oh, I’ve had those.”

“With Mel Gibson in swim briefs?”

“Be nice,” Anton said. “Besides, I’m more of a Kevin Costner man. No, this was entirely different. I remember being on stage – oh, this was an old theater. The footlights were candles with bowls in front of them to reflect the light back at me, and there was a smell – it was wet, I think. Maybe it was raining outside. But anyway, I was dancing and singing both, and they were laughing.”

“Oh, very nice dream. Were you naked?”

But Anton wasn’t listening. “I had them in the palm of my hand,” he said, eyes looking distant. Every pratfall and sidestep had them howling, because my moves were expert, they were perfect. I was really alive up there. Everything was perfect and beautiful, and then something hit me.”

“Hit you,” Michael asked, suddenly interested.

“Yes… yes, I don’t know if I missed a step and stumbled or… maybe I had a stroke. Or maybe someone shot me from the orchestra pit. If it was it was probably my wife – now don’t say it. In the dream it made sense. But that woke me up all disoriented….”

But Michael wasn’t saying it. “With me,” he said, “it was… some kind of fantasy epic. I don’t know much more than that. I was married – her name was Elissa, and we were at war with… well, someone. I’m not really sure whom. There was another warrior, like me… and….”

“And clearly you’ve been reading too much Lord of the Rings,” Tom said, walking by and dropping three project folders on Michael’s desk. “I need the mockups on the Babbage Technology business identity by the end of the day, and all of these are new – needed by the end of the week.”

“What – oh, come on,” Michael said. “I can’t design another three projects by the end of the week – I have layout work due for Thursday as it is. Get Christa to do it.”

“Christa’s overbooked too,” Thomas said. “But one of these are just a business card design and plugging in names.”

“Four color,” Michael asked dubiously.

“Single color,” Thomas said. “Thermographic, so we’ll need a four-up for pre-press after approval.”

Michael sighed and nodded. “Guess I’ll talk to you later, Anton,” he said. “Keep dancing.”

Anton looked wistful for a second. “I don’t know a step,” he said. “Have fun.”

Thomas shook his head at Anton as Anton made his way back to his own desk. “You know, he means it,” he said. “I’ve seen him watching Riverdance. It practically breaks his heart.”

“Huh,” Michael said, looking at the project folders with something close to contempt. Three more vital projects for the world. Letterhead, business cards, maybe even brochure work today. There was such a feeling of importance in the dream. The whole world depended on them….

“I’ve had one of those, you know,” Thomas said, still watching Anton.

“What – dances?”

“No no. One of those dreams you wake up in and it seems real.” Thomas smiled, which was a rare thing for Thomas. “I was a bookbinder.”

“What? A fifteenth century sort of thing?”

“I don’t think so,” Thomas said. “There were people walking around my booth in jeans and tee-shirts. It’s hard to remember, but I think I was working at a Renaissance festival or the like. Or else there were just odd things in it. You were there, I think. You bought a tan leather bound book that had a thong and button to close it.” Thomas smiled a bit. “I remember the smell – the smell of paper and cloth and the dryness of the dust. And there was the smell of horses – from the jousting field or the like. And I remember drinking coffee out of a hand-thrown ceramic mug. It was very nice.”

“I… see,” Michael said.

Thomas snorted. “I’m sure you do,” he said. “Anyway, let me know if you have trouble making those deadlines.”

“I will.” Thomas moved on, more folders in his hands. Michael watched him go. He turned back to his computer. It had booted now, and downloaded six mail messages. All spam. He closed his eyes, thinking about Renaissance festivals, and found himself picturing Elissa, riding her horse, her face ernest and the wind in their faces as they ran….

“Two messages,” the electronic voice of the answering machine chirped as Michael walked inside his apartment. He slapped the button almost aimlessly. He was behind now, and probably should have stayed late in the office, but it was hard to focus. He was trying to piece everything together….

“Michael,” the first message said, “it’s your mother. Give me a call – if you’re coming home this weekend we need to put your bed together and make certain we do a laundry of towels. Call me, all right? I mean, really call me.”

Michael sat down at his desk in the corner of the studio apartment. His computer monitor and piles of books faced him. Including a good number of fantasy novels and series. The Belgariad. The Lord of the Rings. Sunrunner’s Fire. Grist for dreams. Dreams of women with strawberry blond hair and malevolent forces spreading out across the land….

“Michael,” Anton’s voice said from the message machine. “Gillian’s freaking out again, and she could really use people around her, I think. Look, could you come and have coffee with us or something? Just get her out of her apartment for a few minutes? It’d mean the world to her. Okay? Thanks.”

Michael registered the message absently. Gillian had been feeling self-destructive for maybe the last eight years of her life – certainly longer than Michael had ever known her. He opened up one of the drawers of his desk – it was a fake granite looking formica. He’d bought it at a Warehouse store – it was designed as cubicle furniture but it suited his needs perfectly. He dug through it, and pulled out his journal. At least, it was supposed to be a journal. He was going to write in it every day and always have a record of his thoughts. He had only written six words in it. ‘Well, I suppose I should start.’

Elissa and Hector and Manlius (the old man had been Manlius, a mighty wizard who held the key to driving back the ancient Thull… or was he from Manlius?) were a dream. Just a dream that he’d awakened in the middle of, when he’d been hit in his chest (Hit? Yes, he’d been turning his face forward from looking at Elissa, and the bowman had nailed him – practically threw him off the horse, and how could he forget that….) A dream, just like the dream Anton had about dancing or the dream Thomas had about bookbinding. They weren’t real, just flotsum churned up by the subconsciousness as a kind of brain optimization. It defragmented the mind, like a hard drive. He *knew *this.

He looked at the tan leather book in his hand, closed with a thong, and a celtic knot stamped on the front. He remembered the Renaissance festival where he had bought the thing. Andrea – that was when he had been going out with Andrea – had mocked him about spending the money for it. Like she ever wore the bodice she bought, and that had been twelve dollars more….

He tried to remember what the bookbinder had looked like. He could remember the old man’s hands as he slowly laid the pages of his book down, sewing them together without glue. It had been fascinating. But what had his face been? He remembered the EMTs had been to the festival later – they’d brought a stretcher through, covering it with burlap so it didn’t break the illusion of the festival, but had it been the bookbinder they’d brought out? He couldn’t remember….

The phone rang. Almost automatically, still cradling the book in his hand, Michael walked back to the phone and scooped it up just as the third ring began. “Hello,” he asked.

“Michael?” It was Anton.

“Hey there,” he said. “Just got in. I was just about to call you.”

“Oh, good – she’s really freaking out, Michael. She went out with Horace last night–”

“I thought she broke up with him after his last set of mindgames.”

“Look, I don’t pretend to understand her, Michael. If it were me, I’d have smacked Hell out of him and moved on with my life. But she feels stupid and afraid and isolated right now. If there’s anything we can do–“

“Right, right. I’m on my way. Coltrane’s?”

“Sure. Thanks, Michael. I appreciate it.”

Michael said something about it being no problem, and then looked at the book in his hand as he hung up. The Thull would sweep over the mountains and destroy Concordia town by town. They had to be driven back. Elissa and he had been the leaders of the army, until the Thull had driven them away with lightning and death magic. The man from Manlius had been leading them to a weapon that could stand against the horde. He remembered this, more clearly with every passing second. A weapon Michael had been destined to wield, that no other mortal man could hold. But then he was shot. Shot and killed….

Michael shook his head to clear it. This was insane. He grabbed his coat and headed out the door. He’d need the coat, he figured. It had been looking like rain.

The jazz wasn’t all that good tonight – a local band with a little too much sax on drugs for Michael’s tastes, but the crowd hadn’t come in yet so they were really just jamming as background noise.

“It looks like it’s getting fierce out there,” Anton said, craning his neck to look at the window. “I thought it was supposed to be partly cloudy all weekend?”

“You’re not listening,” Michael said, frustrated. He thumped his hand down on the book. “Don’t you see what this could mean?”

Gillian half-laughed, gulping down one of those coffee smoothees Michael could never stand. “At what? Your psychic fair experience with your supervisor?”

“Renaissance festival, not psychic fair. Gillian….”

“What exactly are you suggesting,” Anton asked. He was drinking a thick, strong coffee. More intense than Michael himself liked. “In simple words.”

Michael looked down. “Look, I know its crazy… but that dream seemed so real. I remember everything. Smells, colors – I thought you didn’t dream in color, but she had strawberry blond hair and everything.”

“I dream in color,” Gillian piped in. “I always have.” She giggled again, a giggle from the edge. “But then, I’m nuts, so you can’t tell by me.”

“You are not nuts,” Anton said firmly. “No no no. We’re going to drive that self-negativity right out of you, do you hear me?”

She was nuts, Michael thought. Screwed up by society, her boyfriend or herself, he didn’t know. But screwed up nonetheless. Two or three times a month Anton organized these interventions to keep her from going over the deep end, and Michael usually got pulled along as the anchor into mundane normality. He wasn’t playing that part very well tonight.

“It’s… just think about it. Thomas had a dream where he sold me a leather bound journal at a Renaissance festival – a dream like mine, where it all seemed so incredibly real. That really happened. If that happened… maybe….”

“Maybe what,” Anton asked. “Maybe you’re really some kind of crusader fighting to save a country from the barbarians? Michael, that’s insane. You had a dream. With all that stuff you read, that shouldn’t surprise you.”

“It seemed so real,” Michael said intensely. “Like you said your dancing dream was.”

“But I don’t think I was a dancer in a past life or anything,” Anton said. “I had that dream maybe two years ago. I didn’t have time to reincarnate – or do you suppose that when you go to Heaven instead of becoming an angel you become a copy-jock for a desktop publishing firm? That’s obscene. When I die, I expect to make a higher living wage.”

“I don’t…” Michael sighed. “I don’t know what it means. Maybe we live in many different places at once. Lives in many worlds, but our direct consciousness travels from one lifetime to another as we die. So even while Thomas was working at A-Frame he was also a bookbinder who traveled to Renaissance festivals. Only he died, and his consciousness jumped into another body.”

“Oh please,” Anton said. “That’s beyond a leap of logic. You just want to believe in that redhead of yours, so you’re willing to say anything. Besides, by that logic, we all live in Hell now.”

“Hell?” Gillian asked.

“Well, sure,” Anton said. “Take my dancing dream. I loved dancing. I was a star, and I was incredible, dying on stage even. But when I died I woke up here and I was making seven seventy-five an hour to be a glorified clerk. Thomas clearly loved bookbinding. That simple life, the smells, the women in bodices and flyaway skirts. What’s not to like? And now he’s overworked and overstressed. He almost never smiles. And you, Michael. Come on. It’s not enough that you were married and happy – you had to be the Messiah too? Of course you want to go back.”

“It’s not Hell,” Gillian said quickly. “I know.”

“What?” Michael asked. Anton looked stunned.

“I know because I remember mine, and I was glad to be dying.” Gillian sipped her ice drink, then looked at the two of them. “What? We’re talking about waking up from dreams that seemed so real they could have been other lives, right?”

“Riiiiight,” Michael said slowly.

“Well, mine was terrible. I mean, I’ve had other dreams, but this one seemed… well, as real as this frappacino. It was horrible. I was some kind of peasant girl, and I was running for my life. And there was this thing after me. It looked like a spider, but with extra legs and it jiggled, like it was made out of Jell-o or something. It wanted to breed with me, I think. At least, my clothes were torn. I ran and ran and ran, so scared I was ready to die, and then I reached a cliff, and I turned and it was almost on top of me and it was reaching for me, and I could smell it….”

Michael took Gillian’s free hand carefully. She was shaking like a leaf with the memory, almost spilling her smoothie. “And I fell backwards,” she said, “and I remember falling, and I was looking up and staring at that thing as it looked down, howling at me, and I remember crying with relief and happiness because I wasn’t going to be that thing’s, and I hit, and my whole body jerked and I was awake, and it was all a dream! I was awake and alive, and it couldn’t get me. I was crying and laughing at the same time, so hard I woke Horace and he yelled at me but I didn’t care. I showered and got to the office early and I was so happy.”

“Whooooa,” Anton said. “That’s….”

“I remind myself with it sometime,” Gillian said, sipping her smoothie. “When I really can’t take it, I tell myself it could be so much worse. I could be living an eternal Hell with a creature from beyond the pit – not even allowed to die. Just to breed.” She shivered. “You know, after that Horace doesn’t seem so bad….”

“Horace isn’t a dream,” Anton said. “He’s a nightmare.”

Michael squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you got away,” he said quietly.

Gillian smiled slightly. “Thanks, Michael,” she said. “I’m sorry you lost your wife.”

Anton shook his head. “Why do all my friends turn out to be complete nuts? Maybe it’s me.” He jumped as another thunderclap ripped around the café, the lights flickering this time. “That was close!”

“So what’s your theory,” Gillian asked. “That you go to sleep and live another life?”

“Huh? No. No, it’s… I’ve had too many dreams about sitting in class naked or flying or being trapped by Thomas carrying project folders to believe that. But maybe… oh Hell, I don’t know.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all night,” Anton said. “If you kept this up I was going to have to suggest getting something stronger than coffee just to sedate you.”

Michael glanced at the time. “I wouldn’t have time for anything stronger,” he said. “And sure wouldn’t have time to sober up for it. I’ve got work I need to do tonight to stay ahead of Whipmaster Thomas.”

Anton snickered. “We should get him a leather collar and some studs,” he said.

Gillian laughed, her eyes twinkling. “Well,” she said to Michael, “you sure took my mind off my idiot boyfriend tonight. Thanks.”

Michael nodded. “Look, I’ve got to go.” He pulled out a few dollars and set them on the table. “Catch you tomorrow, Anton?”

“I suppose – unless you wake up and it’s the Roman empire or something.”

“God, I hope not. I hate olive oil.” He grabbed his coat. “See you later, Gillian.”

“Yup.” She grinned. “Take care of yourself.”

Michael nodded, heading outside. His car was across the street, but in the deluge there wasn’t much traffic. He dashed for it, thumbing his key fob to unlock the doors. He still managed to get soaked before he got inside – there had been a quarter-inch of water flowing throuh. Rain was slapping against the windshield, a torrent of fat drops slapping hard enough that Michael thought the grass would crack. He didn’t think it would hail.

The radio crackled when he put it on. “–thunderst… giving way to partly cl… ndoors tonight, for sure. Now, here’s Sl….”

Michael slapped it off, and started the car. He glanced either way but he didn’t see any traffic. Why would he? What fool would go driving in this? He expected to see an ark float by. He pulled out, flipping on his lights and seeking the ripple of light along the driving rain as he went.

It was slow going. Even at twenty miles an hour, driving up Foster’s Hill, Michael could feel the car shimmy a bit. He peered into the gloom – streetlights must be out around here – and swung around a curve. The backroads were usually faster getting to his neighborhood, but tonight–

He saw lights cresting the hill, and flipped his own lights down to low beam. Gillian had seemed so frightened, remembering her Lovecraftian dream. Even with all the crap she brought on herself and others brought on her, that dream seemed to hound her. Seemed to….

Michael winced. The other car’s high beams were still up, and it was hard to see. He swerved away from it, but it seemed to follow him. It was weaving, hydroplaning in the rain. Michael swore and tried to gun the engine – pull forward of it before anything happened. His own wheels lost purchase and the car wheeled to the left, the glare of the other car – no, it was a truck of some kind – hammering through before the entire world seemed to explode, to shatter….

Darkness. Everything seemed to hurt. Everything. Michael couldn’t move. He couldn’t even feel his body. It was as though he were trapped in it, but it wasn’t his. It was just where his mind was… and now it… he… his mind was fallling… falling….

And Michael hit the ground, and his eyes snapped open.

“My love,” Elissa moaned, leaning over him – but not touching him. “My love, can you hear me? Is it you?”

This is fantasy — urban fantasy, which starts from a relatively shopworn fantasy trope (the Mayan Long Count Calendar expires in 2011-2012ish time, and then the whole world changes and magic comes back yadda yadda yadda) in use most prominently in Shadowrun, but takes a real world approach on it. It’s not magical warriors throwing spells in the darkness that would most show a change from a scientific world to a fantasy world, it’s the Dow Jones Industrial Average. Or in this case, the automobile industry.

*** *** *** ***

“May I have your attention, please? We’ve been informed that our fight has been accepted at Manchester International Airport, and we expect the spirits to be cooperative in landing. That will put our gate arrival at 4:33, which is about ten minutes from now. If you could please return to your seats, our flight attendants will begin preparing the cabin for landing. When directed, please cease all portable electronic or magical activity, return your tray tables and seat backs to their full upright position, and place yourself in a conducive frame of mind for landing. We thank you for riding the spirits with American today.”

Donald muttered, closing his notebook computer. Next to him, Ellen stretched, half-smiling. “Don’t look so sour,” she said. “This was a pretty good flight. I remember once I flying from Chicago to Arcadia. This pack of sylphs decided to play dodgeball using the left wing—”

“Whatever,” he snapped. “Better put your orchestra away. The wind might not like classical music.”

Ellen shook her head slightly, turning the orchestra off and slipping it into her bag. “You know, you’d better get in a better frame of mind.”

“Why? Or we’ll crash?”

“Maybe. But even if we don’t, we’re supposed to meet Markham in two and a half hours. It might be a good idea to drop the whole ‘the spirit world hates me’ attitude before then.”

Donald snorted. “I didn’t ask to be sent to New England.”

“No, you asked to be promoted to Senior Executive in Customer Relations. You happy with our customer relations right now, Donnie?”

“Donald.”

“Whatever.” Ellen rubbed her eyes. “Look. I plan to still have a job next week. Want to postpone your dramatic flameout until then?”

Donald rubbed his eyes. “Can’t we just take the Twenties off before the rules change again?”

“The Twenties?” Ellen sounded amused.

“There’s seven billion people on this planet who say it’s Twenty Twenty-four. Just because a few witch doctors say it’s ‘year Twelve—’”

Ellen shrugged. “If you haven’t figured out that means the seven billion are wrong, I’m not going to correct you. I’d enjoy redecorating your office too much.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the flight attendant said, leaning over the pair. “I need you to put your seat back up and calm down? If you’re having trouble, there’s relaxing music on channel four on your headphones and meditation techniques on the back of your Emergency Information Card—”

“I know the drill,” Donald said, curtly.

“Okay! I’ll check on you in a few minutes.” Donald knew if he couldn’t at least fake relaxation, she’d have him sedated.

Donald shifted his seat upright, and folded his hands in front of him. He took a deep breath, focusing on the green dot embroidered on the back of the seat in front of him. He slowly breathed out, and back in, continuing to focus… burying his negative emotions so the spirits wouldn’t be offended as the plane slid through their backyard.

There were a lot of old cars in New Hampshire. That was a change from the glory days of the Nineties and Naughts. Cars used to rust out quickly in New England. They had used salt on their roads and the temperature extremes were hard on engines. People had good reason to trade cars. These days, old cars could last forever if they were well taken care of.

“Hello there,” the Hertz representative said, cheerfully. “Are you two traveling together?”

“Yes,” Ellen said, passing over her Hertz card. “We’ve got a reservation for a Ford Mythic?”

“Oo — one of our luxury cars.” The representative grinned. “You’ll enjoy it. It’s got a platinum orchestra and a built in guide.”

“We’re aware,” Donald said dryly, handing over his platinum Corporate Card. The one from Ford.

“So I see,” the representative said, laughing.

“Mm. Tell me something,” Donald said. “Have you noticed any… problems, with your cars?”

The representative blinked. “Problems?”

“Mysterious breakdowns? Airbags deploying for no reason? Orchestras playing only Disney songs?”

“No. No, nothing like that. Really, everything’s going great. Why — is there some problem with Fords?”

“With Fords, no.” With all cars, yes, Donald didn’t add. But not rental cars. Or old cars. That’s what made it a mystery.

The Hertz representative shrugged. “Well, I’ve never heard of it. Oh — wait, yes I have. My neighbor Todd? He’s in real estate. Anyway, he got this new BMW — oh, it must have been six or seven months ago. I guess it’s been in the shop six or seven times in the last couple of months. Last time they gave him faulty tires. I guess he went out to go to work in the morning, and they were all flat. Every last one of them.”

“Mm. Sounds like bad luck.”

“Well, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer person,” the representative said, eyes gleaming. “He was positively lording that car over us for a couple of months. I love driving my nice, reliable Accord past his place every morning. Had it nine years, and not problem one.”

“Sounds nice,” Donald said, blandly. “Are we ready to go?”

“Oh, absolutely. Just sign right here.”

Everett Markham’s estate was on an old farm. Donald noticed it was in production as they turned onto the private road and drove to the main house. There was a dairy herd and it looked like were operating a maple sugar farm.

“He does pretty well for himself,” Donald said.

“Don’t start.”

“What? It’s true. This is a nice piece of property.”

“Donald, he’s a Peer. He could have a floating castle of glass if he really wanted it.”

“It’s so funny you think I haven’t noticed the Crystal Duchess’s quaint little sky cottage back home.”

“Don’t.” Ellen’s voice had grown an edge. “Don’t you get snotty about the Crystal Duchess.”

“I’m sorry. Strike a nerve?”

“Damn right. I lived in old world Detroit. If you want to go back to those days, please feel free.”

“I want to go back to being free.”

“You know, poor people say they’re a lot more free now.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Now that I think about it, I pretty much do whatever I want outside of work. And if I get sick of working, I’m not worried I’ll lose my house or starve.”

“Jesus Christ. We’re not having this conversation.”

“In fact, the only people who’ve lost freedom lately are people like you. The ones who had wealth and power in the old world. You guys aren’t free to mess around with the environment or peoples’ pension funds any more, are you?”

“That’s enough.” Donald’s voice was harsh. “You are this close to being fired.”

“For having an opinion?”

“For continuing to talk about it when I said to drop it! That’s one the Crystal Duchess would agree with!”

Ellen narrowed her eyes, then looked away. “Consider it dropped, Mister Gaines.”

Donald took a deep breath. He considered trying those relaxation techniques again. “I’m sorry, El,” he said after thirty seconds or so. “You’re probably right. It just strikes a nerve.”

“Maybe it should,” Ellen said, not looking at him.

“Look, I didn’t invent the rules. But I spent my whole career working under them. I got good at it. I had plans and a future and I knew that whatever happened, things would work out more or less like I expected them to. And then….”

“And then the old world died in 2012, and the New World was born, and all the rules went out the window,” Ellen relented, turning to look at him. “Donnie… it was like that for all of us. When the Mayan clock struck midnight and the New World began… it blew us away. But we live here now, and you’ve got to acclimate to that. It’s been twelve years.”

“Twelve years…” he shook his head. “You know, I was at Ford when they changed the cars.”

Ellen didn’t answer. She clearly didn’t know what to say.

“It started in Seattle. The Gaian Witch had started small. Walking down the streets, touching cars. Doing… I don’t know. Whatever they do. One minute they were normal, and the next they didn’t need gas, didn’t need oil, never wore out….”

“Didn’t she get sued?”

“Like she cared. Like any of them cared. Yeah, she got sued. Sued by the car companies and the gas companies. They got the government to issue an injunction. And when she ignored it they issued an injunction to the Peerage to stop her.”

Ellen smiled, not unkindly. “And the Peerage responded by changing all the automobiles, everywhere.”

“Yes, they certainly did. Yes, they certainly did.” He shook his head again. “Twelve years. And I’m just making Senior Executive in an industry that’s being rendered obsolete. And now the cars we are managing to sell are failing for no good reason.”

“There’s a reason, all right. We just don’t know what it is.” Ellen put her hand on Donald’s arm. “That’s why we’re here; to find out why it’s happening so we can fix it.”

“If we can fix it, you mean.”

“Well, yes. If we can fix it.”

A seventeen year old girl met them at the door. She wore a grey tunic with the device of a black cat on it — Markham’s livery — and a black knee length skirt. And comfortable looking sneakers with white socks, Donald noticed. That was good at least. The Crystal Duchess’s servants wore boots that looked like ankle breakers to Donald. If we have to work with Markham, he might as well not be a bastard.

“You’re Mister Gaines and Ms. Tanner?” the girl asked.

“That’s right,” Ellen said. Donald knew to let her do most of the talking in the house, given his biases.

“Hi there.” She grinned. “My name’s Becky. The Shaman told me to expect you. He’s busy right this second, but he wanted me to make you two comfortable until he was ready.”

“Thanks,” she looked around the house. It was a big colonial. It would have looked at home in the seventeenth or eighteenth century, barring the light bulbs. “This is a beautiful place.”

“Thank you.” Becky’s grin widened. “Of course, you don’t have to vacuum it.”

“And thank God for that.” Ellen’s face faltered. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Becky said. “The Shaman’s not dogmatic. He doesn’t care whose name you take in vain.” Becky led them through the entryway, into a large living room armchairs and a couch in front of a beautiful coffee table angled to face a huge fireplace. They looked like antiques in pristine condition. Donald didn’t doubt they were. The Peerage weren’t known for denying themselves creature comforts.

“Tyler,” Becky said sharply, suddenly. “You know better.” She leaned down over one of the chairs, scooping up an armful of fur. Tyler seemed to be a Maine Coon Cat, squirming as she picked him up. “Sorry,” she said. “They think they own the place.”

“Don’t they?” Donald asked. “You’re wearing a cat logo on your clothes. They’re not wearing a human logo on their collars.”

Ellen shot Donald a look, but Becky laughed. “The Shaman’s totem is the cat. He likes having them around, and they like being around, But they claw the furniture and they shed.”

“And you have to vacuum it up?”

“Exactly.”

“How’d you come to work here?” Donald asked, sitting down.

“Oh, I volunteered,” Becky said. “We all did. The towns all offer volunteer workers, and he gives his services to us in return. He says that’s the Shamanic tradition.”

“But you’d have to do what he said, anyway,” Donald said. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Well, he’s pretty hands off when it comes to how we live. People seek him out for things, usually. Unless someone’s hurting his neighbors or pissing off the spirits.”

“Right.” Donald shut up then, before he got in trouble. How would the mundane people of the domain know when the spirits were pissed off, except when Everett Markham told them? “So you volunteered?”

“Oh yeah. You work here for four years, and you get four years free tuition at one of the colleges inside the domain. I’m shooting for Bowdoin.” She grinned. “You know how cool a free ride at Bowdoin would be?”

“Bowdoin’s in Markham’s domain?” Donald asked. “I didn’t think it extended that far east.”

“It goes to Freeport, ’cause he wanted L.L. Bean’s, I think.” Becky grinned again. “Bowdoin’s kind of a border case — but we have an exchange program. The Shaman’s policy is meant to bring a higher caliber of student into Saint Joseph’s and Plymouth State College.”

Donald nodded. He already knew that. “He’s not upset you’re not going to one of those?”

Becky grinned. “He says that it’s my path to choose, and putting up with him for four years means I get cut a lot of slack. In his words.”

“Right.”

“Can I get you guys something to drink? A cup of tea, maybe?”

“That’d be wonderful,” Ellen said.

“Sure. Be right back.”

Donald watched her go, then watched Ellen sit down across from him. “She seemed nice,” he said.

“Donald…” Ellen said, with a warning in her voice.

Donald raised his hands. “I’m being good.”

“Good.”

Unlike most of the house, Everett Markham’s office was downright messy. Piles of books and papers were everywhere, with overstuffed bookshelves and various knickknacks ranging from plastic toys to bird nests. And cats, of course. Everett Markham himself was stocky, but not overweight. He was maybe five-eleven, and had long salt and pepper hair. He wore several long, thin braids with beads, and beaded necklaces positively festooned his neck. That, a green tee shirt and jeans, and a slightly weathered face with a close cut beard set the stage. He looked like a thirty year old hippy.

Except he was a hippy you couldn’t take your eyes off of, and if the dossier were accurate, he was pushing fifty now. When you weren’t in the room with one of the Peerage, you could pretend they were just another human being with some strange additions. Confronted with the reality, you just couldn’t ignore them. Everett Markham was one of the cornerstones of the New World, and looking at him, you knew it.

“I’m sorry you had to wait,” he said, shaking both of their hands. “There was some trouble on the Sebago that needed resolving.

“Sebago Lake? I thought that was on the Maine side,” Ellen said.

Markham’s smile firmed slightly. “Actually, it’s not really Maine or New Hampshire anymore. We call it Rolandshire.”

“After someone?” Donald asked, professional smile firmly in place.

“My father. He wasn’t impressed. Thought it silly.” Markham shrugged. “I don’t indulge too many of my whims. That one seemed harmless.”

“Of course,” Ellen said, smoothly. She shooed a cat off a chair and sat down. “Lord Shaman… we need your help.”

Markham nodded. “Most people who seek me do. I usually stick to my domain, though. They provide for me, and I provide for them.”

“We understand that,” Ellen said. “But we understand you might have better insight into our specific problem.”

“Mm. Yes. The cars. Why don’t you go over it for me?”

“It’s really quite serious,” Donald said. “After the… incidents of 2014….”

“Year two,” Ellen cut in hurriedly.

“Actually, the Peerage Action in question was in year three,” Markham said, with a slight smile. “The calendars don’t quite sync up. But I knew what he meant. Go on, Mister Gaines.”

“Thank you. Anyway, when the bottom dropped out of the domestic market—”

“Donald….”

“Miss Tanner,” Markham said, his tone less amiable, “please don’t keep interrupting. I’m more interested in what Mister Gaines has to say than making sure it’s said politely.”

“I… of course. I’m sorry, Lord Shaman.”

Markham nodded, turning back to Donald. “Go on.”

“Well, we received guidelines from the Peerage on how to manufacture cars after they — you — changed how they work. What was necessary, and what wasn’t. The symbolic elements needed, and how they matched up with traditional, old world parts.”

“Mm. Go on.”

“Well, the market for new cars got dicey. Since older cars weren’t wearing out — and since they didn’t consume much of anything except windshield washer fluid — people weren’t as interested in buying new ones. There was a flurry after we introduced the first several new models — people liked the larger interior room since fuel mileage and emissions were no longer relevant. But lots of others liked buying and keeping used cars.” Especially since they cost so much less, he added mentally. “After three or four years the big automakers got in trouble. Us, the Japanese, the Germans, the Koreans….”

“But you’re still here,” Markham said. “Clearly, Ford managed to survive.”

“Barely. We went aggressively after a very specific market.”

“Which market was that?”

“The upscale customer, interested in projecting a specific image.”

“Ah.” Markham smiled. “You went after the conspicuous consumers.”

Ellen half-smiled. “Exactly. The people who lease instead of buy, to make sure they always have the very newest cars, the very best and brightest.”

“We had an uphill battle, because we were competing with established luxury brands,” Donald said. “But we already owned Jaguar and Aston Martin, and we aggressively designed and developed, and we made sure to cut our overseas production instead of domestic. That meant something to people who still believed in America, and it carried over into the Six Nations.”

“We also have economy of scale,” Ellen said. “We produce a lot of cars, meaning that Fords are on the rental lots, in the limo companies… it’s less expensive for the companies who buy in bulk, and that transfers to a luxury experience that middle management can afford. We cut into Acura and the lower end of BMW that way.”

“So what’s the problem,” Markham asked.

Donald bit his lip. “They’re breaking down.”

Markham arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“The luxury cars. They’re breaking down. Failing. At first, we thought we had a defective product line. We spent a lot of money on computer modeling and even got some prognostications done, but it all came back negative. And then we started hearing it wasn’t just us.”

“Ford, you mean?”

“That’s right,” Ellen said. “Ford, GM, Honda, Lexus, BMW… all of them were having problems. And not consistent ones. Sometimes components fail. Sometimes parts break out of nowhere. And sometimes people die.”

“Die?” Markham frowned.

“Unexplained crashes. Sometimes the seat belts, airbags and brakes all fail at once. Statistically, it should be impossible.”

Markham waved his hand dismissively. “Statistics are garbage,” he said. “Irrelevant to the New World.”

“Our scientists and mathematicians—”

“Your scientists and mathematicians are still using ‘sciences’ from the old world. They don’t apply. Give them a few hundred or thousand years, and they’ll work out sciences for this world.” Markham half-smiled. “Just in time for the next long cycle to pass and another world to be born.”

“We’re doing the best we can,” Donald insisted. “But nothing we do helps. We thought that maybe we’d offended one of the Peerage… maybe walked into a curse, but when we petitioned the Crystal Duchess, she checked and said we were clean.”

“So why didn’t she figure out what was wrong?”

“She couldn’t be bothered,” Donald said. “She doesn’t like old world mechanical devices. She likes her own crystal clockworks.”

Markham nodded. “Bethany’s a sweet girl, but she wants a fairy tale kingdom. This isn’t her style.”

“But it is yours?” Donald asked.

Markham shrugged. “I’m not a mechanic, but I speak to the spirits of technology.”

“So… you can help?” Ellen asked.

Markham shrugged. “I can consult the spirits, and see what’s bothering them.”

“In automobiles?” Donald asked. “They’re manmade.”

“So’s a baby, but you’ll agree those are alive, won’t you?” Markham smiled wryly.

“That’s wonderful,” Ellen said. “When can you start?”

Markham arched an eyebrow. “I don’t have any reason to, yet.”

“Oh. Oh, I thought you said—”

“I said I can speak to the right spirits and see what’s bothering them. I didn’t say I would. My responsibilities are in Rolandshire, not the Crystal Duchess’s domain.”

“Your people drive cars, don’t they?”

“And if one of them has a problem, they can ask me to look into it. Ford Motor Company’s not in my domain, and I don’t really care if it goes out of business or not.”

“Thousands of people work for Ford,” Donald said, curtly.

“I’m pretty sure they’ll be provided for,” Markham said. “Fairy tales work better when everyone lives happily ever after.”

“Is that why people work the fields in your domain?”

“I happen to think people are happiest when they work,” Markham said mildly. “But none of my people go hungry or want for something to do. You’re not giving me reasons. Shall we end this petition now and save us all some time?”

“No,” Ellen said, sharply. She then controlled herself. “No, Lord Shaman. We have a proposal for you.”

“Money?” Markham snorted. “I don’t use it.”

No, of course not. You’re given whatever you want, Donald thought. “Not money, no. Something of greater interest to you, we hope.” He opened his briefcase, and took out a file folder. “We’ve got one hundred straight A students from the Detroit/Windsor area. Top students, good SATs, ready to go to college. The Crystal Duchess has granted permission for those students to travel here — half for Plymouth State College, half for Saint Joseph’s College, in a variety of fields. Ford Motor Company is prepared to subsidize all their expenses and provide grants to the colleges in question, then send another hundred students a year for the next eight years.”

Markham took the folder, scrutinizing it with interest. “What are the terms?”

“These hundred will be on their way immediately. The rest will come assuming our problem gets solved.”

Markham arched an eyebrow. “No, they’ll come regardless.”

“Look — we’re contracting for—”

“You’re contracting a Shaman for his advice, his insight, and his understanding. I will provide it. However, if you haven’t been cursed, something’s making the spirits upset. I can find out what it is, but it’s up to you to correct it. In the end, the spirits will do as the spirits will do.” Markham fixed his stare on Donald. “Your company will provide the students to my schools, regardless of whether you follow my advice or not. Is that clear?”

Donald shivered uncontrollably, caught in the stare. The power was palpable now. He felt like the Shaman was cutting him open, and examining his organs. He felt like a butterfly with a needle driven through it, mounting him to a board. “…yes,” he squeaked.

Markham relented, nodding. “Acceptable.”

“Though…” Donald adjusted his tie. “…though if Ford goes bankrupt, we can hardly subsidize college educations.”

Markham shrugged. “If Ford goes bankrupt, its shareholders had best not be stupid enough to bring a Shaman’s curse down upon their houses for ten generations. Are you a shareholder, Donald Gaines?”

Donald looked away. “I’ll have our lawyers revise the contracts.”

“Don’t bother.” Markham set the contract down. “The spirits of the contract have agreed to my terms. They did the moment you handed me the file.”

Donald blinked. “Your contract is with us.”

Markham shrugged again. “All things are alive, Mister Gaines. Who do you think is the authority? Your lawyers, or the contract itself?”

Donald took a deep breath. “Of course,” he said coldly. It’s just like the Gaian Witch. They don’t care about our laws, so why would they care about our lawyers?

“Good. It’s settled. We’ll leave tomorrow morning. I need to actually see one of the cars. Maybe more than one.”

“Of course,” Ellen said. “We have first class tickets out of Manchester to—”

“Not necessary,” Markham said. “We’ll walk.”

“It’s… quite a distance,” Donald said. “We’re on a tight schedule….”

Markham smiled a bit.

Donald clenched the arms of his chair, but forced himself to remain calm. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m old fashioned. I don’t have your perspective.”

“No. No, sadly you don’t. But maybe someday you will,” Markham said. “You’ll stay in the guest wing. Becky and Annabel will see to your needs.”

“We have a hotel in Laconia,” Ellen said.

“You’ll stay in the guest wing,” Markham repeated himself. “I’ll have your things brought and settle your bill. If you’ll excuse me, I have to make arrangements for our trip tomorrow. I need to ask formal permission of Bethany before we show up.”

“Thank you, Lord Shaman,” Ellen said, standing and offering a hand. “You have such a beautiful house, and we’re so excited you’re going to help us.”

“It serves my needs,” Markham said, shaking her hand briefly. “As does your contract. It’s been nice to meet you.”

Donald shook his hand and turned to follow Ellen out.

“Mister Gaines, wait a moment.”

Donald and Ellen paused.

“It’s all right, Miss Tanner. He’ll catch up with you.”

Ellen looked at Markham, before nodding slightly. She gave Donald a significant look — a glare, really — before walking out the door.

“She prefers Ms. to Miss,” Donald said, quietly.

“I prefer Miss and Mister, to Ms., Mistress, Madam or Master,” Markham said mildly. “You’re angry.”

“It’s… nothing to be concerned about, Lord Shaman,” Donald said. “I’m pleased we were able to come to terms.”

“I’m sorry the old world died, Mister Gaines. It wasn’t my idea.”

Donald blinked. “Excuse me?”

Markham looked sidelong at him. “You want so badly to live in the old world. I’m sorry you can’t. If I had a way, I’d send you there.”

“I… know that, Lord Shaman.”

“Perhaps.” He looked off to the side. “Your hostility calls spirits to you. Dark ones. They could plague you if you’re not careful.”

Donald worked his mouth. “I meant no offense, Lord Shaman.”

“You haven’t offended me.” He looked Donald in the eyes. “I don’t owe you my advice, but it is offered nonetheless.”

Donald shivered, and nodded. “Thank you, Lord Shaman.”

“What are you driving, these days?”

“Lord Shaman?’

“What are you driving, these days?” Markham smiled a bit. “It’s not that hard a question, is it?”

“I… I’ve got an Olympic,” Donald said. “Perk of the job. I get a new car to drive every year.”

“And what’s gone wrong with yours?”

Donald took another deep breath. Nice and regular. In and out. “It’s fine, really.”

“But what isn’t fine?”

“It… the orchestra’s mistuned. I get things I don’t want. Latino music first thing in the morning. Organ music when I’m driving home. And the check engine light keeps going on, but of course there’s nothing wrong with the car. Hell, there isn’t even a real engine to check.”

Markham nodded slightly. “We’ll look at your car tomorrow.”

“We have several that have been returned….”

“They won’t tell me what I need to know. More importantly, they won’t tell me what you need to know. Yours will.”

“I… see.”

“I wish that were true.” Markham sounded distant. “Enjoy dinner.”

It was drizzling the next morning. Markham led them out of the house, walking with an aspen wood staff in hand. It looked old, and weathered, untreated or finished in any way and worn from long use. He also wore a dark cloak, and sturdy traveling clothes, and had painted some kind of colored marks on his face.

Ellen, once she had let herself relax, had thoroughly enjoyed herself. She was animated and talkative with the servants, and had chatted almost conversationally with Markham that morning. Now, she was striding behind Markham, wearing her travel shoes instead of the pumps she had worn to the meeting. Donald had only brought dress shoes, but they were comfortable enough for walking.

The path they walked was crushed gravel, leading into the forest. The trees bracketed them as they walked. Underfoot, the crushed rock gave way to soil, and then tightly packed dirt. The trees were closer together, now, and low stone walls, made through piling in the New England way, were on either side. They got higher… more regular, the dirt path now cobblestoned… the stone walls now mortared… now brick instead of stone… now beginning to gleam with a golden shine of their own….

When they emerged from the alleyway, they were standing before Majestic Hall in Detroit. At the top of the gleaming crystal and gold stairs, dozens of the Crystal Duchess’s servitors stood at attention in their uniforms of satin and leather, while her crystal clockwork beings bowed in front of them.

“Everett,” the Crystal Duchess herself said. “Welcome. Welcome to my Shining Cities.” She was wearing an elaborate gown that matched her livery, floating above all the rest in a crystal sphere.

Markham smiled. “Bethany… you look wonderful, and you honor me with this display.”

“You’re such a dear,” she said, the ball drifting closer. She was radiantly beautiful, of course, and like always Donald couldn’t tear his eyes off her. This time, she was much closer, and the effect was exponential.

And yet, despite Markham’s dark clothing and primitive face paint, his sheer presence was equal to the Crystal Duchess. She knew it too, ignoring clothing she would never permit a subject to wear in her vicinity and greeting him like a beloved brother too long away. “So, have my subjects behaved themselves in your domain, Everett? The honor of the Shining Cities are at stake.”

“No worries,” Markham said, mildly. “Their problem intrigued me, and we came to acceptable terms. I thank you for allowing so many of your best and brightest students to travel to Rolandshire.”

“Think nothing of it. There are hundreds of thousands of citizens in my cities. You have chosen a domain that is sparsely populated. The least I could do is help you balance that equation.” She winked coquettishly.

“I’m happy with my woods and fields. You should see them. Perhaps in time for fresh apple cider and maple sugar candies?”

“You tempt me. When you’re done with this problem of Ford’s, won’t you come and tour Majestic Hall and the Shining Cities? Won’t you?”

Markham smiled a bit. “I pledge three days and nights to seeing your glorious domain, if you will grant me the same in my humble one.”

“Done and done. I’ll expect a chance to ride a horse.” She clapped her hands, the bubble popping and the Duchess drifting to the ground. She took the Shaman’s hands and almost bounced like a little girl. “It’s so good to see you, Everett.”

“You too, Bethany. You too.”

Donald forced his eyes away from their combined glory and took out his phone. He punched in a speed dial code.

“Michael Steele.”

“Mister Steele? Donald Gaines. We’re back in town, at the foot of Majestic Hall. Send a car as soon as you can — the Shaman’s with us.”

“What? Why didn’t you call me last night?”

“I couldn’t get a signal.”

“So why didn’t you call me from the hotel?”

“The Shaman insisted we stay overnight, and they don’t have a phone.” Donald rubbed the bridge of the nose. “Just send something ASAP. He’s chatting with the Crystal Duchess right now, but when he’s ready—”

“The Crystal Duchess is there too?” Steele sounded shocked. “Damn it, Donald.”

“Just hurry. I need to get back to him.”

“Go. Go.” Steele hung up.

The car was there ten minutes later. The peers talked for fifteen minutes after that, then separated with more promises to spend time together.

Markham looked the car over as they approached. “A Ford Olympic,” he said.

“Only the best for you, Lord Shaman,” Ellen said.

“Not yours, though?” Markham asked Donald.

“No. No, this is a limousine, Lord Shaman.”

Markham nodded, sliding into the opened door. “Tell me, have the limos had similar problems?”

“No, Lord Shaman,” Ellen said, sliding across from him. Donald slid next to her.

“What about rentals? You mentioned you sold a lot of rental cars….”

“No. Rentals have had no unusual problems.”

“Which is itself unusual, don’t you think?” Markham was looking off to the side, lost in thought or in the spirit world again.

“We can’t explain it,” Donald said.

“Mister Steele is expecting us at the headquarters,” the driver said.

“No,” Markham said, absently. He looked out the window, watching the clockwork servants and liveried servitors dispersing. “Take us to Mister Gaines’s house.”

“But—”

“Do it,” Donald said.

The driver looked at the Shaman, shivered, then forced himself to turn around and begin driving.

“Have you known the Crystal Duchess long,” Ellen asked, quietly.

“Mm? In the spirit world. We’ve never met face to face before now.”

“She seemed… very glad to see you.”

“She was. And I was glad to see her. We’re spread too thin, for comfort.” He watched Majestic Hall recede into the distance. “It’s… nice, to meet in person.”

Donald didn’t have an answer for that.

“Michael Steele.”

“Mister Steele. Donald Gaines.” Donald was pacing in the carport. His new model Y13 Ford Olympic was there, bigger than life. And the Shaman was lying on the cement floor, eyes open but unseeing, next to it.

“Don. Where the Hell are you? We expected you in Dearborn two hours ago. We had to have the caterers put the finger sandwiches back in the coolers.”

“Sorry. Markham wanted to go to my house.”

“Your house?”

“He wanted to look at one of the affected cars that someone still owned, instead of one of the returns. And he knew I owned one.”

There was a pause. “I didn’t know you were having problems with your car. A Mythic, isn’t it?”

“An Olympic.”

“Jesus. Just what we need. We can’t even keep our own executives on the road when they’re driving our best cars.” By best, he meant most expensive.

“Yeah, well. I haven’t exactly been telling people about it.”

“Good. You want to know what drives me insane?”

“What?”

“Our Aston Martin division just does the Vantage and the Lagonda now, and they pretty much only sell to rich old James Bond fans. We sell a few hundred a year, tops. And not one of them’s failed.”

“Really?” Donald looked at the Shaman, who was still lying like a board on his floor. “Why don’t we just mass produce those instead of putting out a few hundred thousand dollars a year in scholarship money?”

“Wouldn’t work,” Steele said. “Remember when we closed the Jaguar division and released the new Ford Jaguar?”

“Sure?”

“The first two or three thousand that went off the line had no problems to speak of. Every other had worse problems than the Mythics. We managed to laugh it off — Jags had a reputation for being in the shop all the time anyway — but when Hondas and Chevys from twenty years ago never go in the shop, people lose interest in a prestige car they can’t drive.”

“Jesus.”

“So what’s Markham doing?”

“He’s… lying on the floor. He looks dead.”

“Is he?”

“Nah. He called it ecstatic projection. He’s in the Spirit World chatting my car up, I guess.”

“Oh, sure. Are you keeping him happy?”

“Who knows?” Donald took a deep breath. In and out, in and out. “Mister Steele… he’s going to be satisfied. Period. If he doesn’t like something, he changes it. It’s why we’re here instead of in Dearborn. It’s why we didn’t stay at the hotel, and why we walked back to Detroit.”

“You walked from New Hampshire to Detroit in a morning?” Steele chuckled. “Twelve years into this, and that never stops amazing me.”

“Yeah. It was the time of my life. I’ll call you back when he comes out of the trance.”

“Do. Don’t screw this up, Donald.”

“Doing my best, Mister Steele.” But the boss had already hung up. Donald put his phone away and folded his arms.

“He’s not happy?” Ellen asked.

“They didn’t get to show off the ice sculptures,” Donald said. “How happy could he be?”

“Mm.” Ellen looked at Markham, who was still lying on the floor. “Hey, I didn’t know your car was having trouble.”

“Yours isn’t?”

“Nope.”

“What’re you driving?”

“These days? I got a sweet Mustang about three years ago. That car’s my baby.”

“No problems?”

“Nope. I had an old Saturn before that. I gave it to my kid brother for his high school graduation. He’s still got it.”

“You could have gotten him a new Ford Volvo,” Donald said mildly. That was their current marketing blitz — make their first car a safe car, pushing the Ford Volvo sedans toward students and the Ford Volvo wagons to young families.

“Why would I do that, when I had an old Saturn in good shape?”

“Yeah yeah. Come on. I’m starved. Want me to call out for pizza?”

“Sure.”

The pizza had just arrived when Markham walked in from the garage. He looked relaxed and cheerful, like he’d just had a good workout. “That smells good,” he said.

“Help yourself,” Donald said. “How’d it go?”

“Pretty well,” Markham said, scooping up a slice of pepperoni. He practically devoured it. “I always get hungry after walking the spirit world. It was six days from my point of view.”

“Really?” Ellen asked, “what’s it like?”

“It varies.”

“What did you find out? Can you help us?” Donald’s stomach was knotted.

“Can I help you? No. But I know how you and your customers can help yourselves.” Markham took another bite, chewing and swallowing .

“What do we need to do?” Ellen asked.

“The spirits are offended, Miss Tanner. They must be made happy or they will continue to make mischief.”

“That mischief is killing people,” Donald snapped.

“Not to mention killing your last profitable division?” Markham asked mildly.

“What do we need to do?” Donald demanded. “How do we stop it?”

Markham didn’t react to Donald’s vehemence. He took another piece of pizza, and nibbled, considering his words. “You need to pay attention to your car, Mister Gaines. You and all your customers.”

Donald blinked. “What?”

“Think of a spirit like a puppy, or a three year old child, who’s being ignored and neglected. Eventually, it starts making trouble so someone will pay attention. It starts small — mistuning the orchestra, misguiding to destinations, putting on the check engine light — then starts breaking down. Developing faults. Finally, it gets upset and becomes violent. Crashing, and refusing to protect the passengers.”

“I… don’t understand,” Ellen said. “My car doesn’t do any of that.”

“Do you own a luxury car? Do you get a new one every year?”

“No, I have a Mustang.”

“And let me guess. You lavish it with care.” Markham smiled slightly. “It feels like a part of your life. And families who don’t care about having the best status symbols on the block rely on their cars. Sometimes they live out of them. They certainly spend a lot of time and energy on them, because they’ve got them for the long haul.

“But your luxury customers — specifically, the customers you’re most actively courting — don’t care about their cars at all. Someone else cleans them. They drive them to be seen in them. They do it to keep up appearances with their neighbors. And a year later, they let them go and start all over. The cars don’t like that, and so they’re acting out.”

Donald stared. “Our cars… are upset… because we don’t treat them like pets?”

“All things are alive, Mister Gaines.”

Donald sank back into his chair, hulled. He rubbed his face. “How do we make them happy? What do we have to do to them?”

“Your company? Nothing. But you have to have your owners care about their cars. It would help if they gave them names. Miss Tanner — does your car have a name?”

“My Mustang?” She smiled, almost blushing. “I call it Baby.”

“There you go. I can detail simple daily and weekly procedures for your customers to follow. Ways to make the spirits feel appreciated.”

“Wait — what about rental cars?” Donald demanded. “Why aren’t those ‘acting out?’”

“They’re taken out for a few days, then returned, washed and detailed, and gone over by mechanics before being prepared for the next customer,” Markham said. “They feel important. The same with limousines. They are the foundation of their businesses, so they’re treated with care.”

“So you… you’re actually saying we have to bond with our cars. We have to…” Donald threw his pizza across the room. “Damn it.”

“Donald,” Ellen snapped, horrified. “What are you—”

Markham was unruffled. “It won’t be hard,” he said. “Really, many businesses and their customers have had to learn to treat the spirits with respect to stay in business. Think of the rituals used on airplanes to mollify the spirits of the air and wind, or the rituals to keep gremlins and glitches out of manufacturing. You must use them yourself in your—”

“Don’t you get it?” Donald shouted. “Don’t you understand? We don’t want them bonding with their cars! We don’t want them naming them and spending time with them! People who care about their cars won’t replace them until they wear out, and cars don’t wear out any more!”

Markham looked down. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Surely, there will still be a market for—”

“For trucks? For rental cars? Sure, for a while. But for consumer cars? Only when attrition and accidents make it too difficult to get a good used car cheaply.” Donald put his head in his hands. “Jesus, cars will become niche products. Handmade. The sort of thing you buy maybe twice in your life, and both of those used.”

Markham shrugged. “The death of the old world has changed many things.”

“You couldn’t leave us this? Who were we hurting? We weren’t polluting the environment any more! We weren’t causing trouble! We didn’t force anyone to buy Mythics or Olympics, for Christ’s sake! You couldn’t leave us this one market?”

“I didn’t cause this, Mister Gaines.”

“Then change the rules! You could change how cars worked before! Do it again! Make them happy just sitting in the damn garage!”

“We changed how automobiles operated in the physical realm. That was simple. But we cannot change the nature of spirits any more than you can, Mister Gaines.”

“This isn’t what we contracted you for!”

“As I told you before. You contracted a Shaman for his advice, his insight, and his understanding. You are receiving the benefit of all of those. What you do with that advice, insight and understanding is of no concern to me.”

“Jesus. No concern, he says.” Donald stood, fists clenched, wheeling to face Ellen. “He doesn’t care! Ford Motors, Honda, BMW, Chevy — they’re all just old world companies to him!”

“There are beautiful sea walls in Falmouth, back in Rolandshire,” Markham said. “But when the tide comes in they slowly erode away. I could strive to save them. I could shout away the spirits of the waters. I could reinforce the spirits of the sea walls. But in the end, I know that when the sea walls come down, the people of Rolandshire will build new ones. Walls meant to withstand the tide.” He fixed Donald with a look. “I do not choose to fight the tide, Mister Gaines. Not for them. Not for you.”

Donald whirled, hand cocked back to slap or punch Markham. But he didn’t follow through. He couldn’t follow through. He stared, and he hated, but he couldn’t strike the Shaman. He wanted to wipe the smug look off his face, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. The universe wouldn’t allow it.

“Mister Gaines,” Markham said, evenly, “you are upset. I have chosen to make allowances for this. I suggest you find a way to comport yourself, before you say or do something I cannot make allowances for.” He turned to Ellen. “Let us step into the next room, and I will give you my recommendations. You can present them to your company officers, and they will make whatever decision they choose.”

“Right… sure.” Ellen looked at Donald. She was worried, but didn’t say anything. She simply led the Shaman into the next room.

Donald watched them go, dropping his arm helplessly. He looked back at the remains of their meal. With a harsh cry, he shoved the boxes and pizza onto the floor, and then sank down onto the kitchen tiles and cried.

Ellen found him in the garage. He’d taken his coat and tie off, and was sitting on an old lawn chair, staring at his Olympic. He’d opened the garage door, and the afternoon light was spilling in.

“Hey. I made coffee. Hope that’s okay.” She handed him a cup.

Donald clutched it, feeling the heat. “Where’s Markham?”

“Gone. He went to see the Crystal Duchess. Spend those three days with her. He gave me detailed instructions.”

“Did you call Steele?”

“Not yet. You?”

Donald shook his head. “He called me once, but I didn’t pick up.”

Ellen nodded, then looked at the car. “It really is a beautiful car, you know.”

“Of course it is. I get it detailed weekly.” He made a face. “That wasn’t good enough for you?” he said to the car. “That wasn’t good? You didn’t like getting all clean and shiny?”

Ellen sat on the door stoop. “It’s weird. Twelve years into the new world, and talking to your car still seems insane.”

“Do you talk to yo— to Baby?” Donald asked.

“Well, yeah. Sometimes.” Ellen took a sip of her own coffee. “I guess I just didn’t realize she was listening.”

“Yeah.” Donald sipped his own. There was sugar in it. He didn’t say anything, though. “Well, you’ll get to redecorate my office now. You’ll look good in it, too.”

Ellen made a face. “I won’t tell Steele you freaked out at Markham. The Shaman didn’t care, so why should I?”

Donald waved his hand. “Not that. But trust me, when my name appears on a report saying we need to trash the only successful marketing campaign we have left, I’ll be packing cardboard boxes within the hour.”

“Then they’ll fire both of us, won’t they?”

“Nope. That would be an overreaction.” He looked down into his coffee cup. “Maybe working in the fields isn’t such a bad idea.”

“You’re not the farmer type.”

“No. I’m an old world executive. I’m as dead as Ford. It’s just neither of us have figured it out yet.” He sipped his coffee. “There’s nothing wrong with making and selling cars.”

“No. No there isn’t.”

“A car used to be a symbol. It said that you’d made it. You were a success. You had a shiny new car in the driveway.” He shook his head.

“We’ll adapt, Donnie. Ford will adapt.”

“Did Hyundai adapt? Did Kia? Do we still make Mercurys? Does Mercedes still make Chryslers?”

“People still drive, Donnie.”

“Yeah.” He gulped down the rest of his coffee. “People still drive. Someone will still be making cars. Just not so many.”

“Well… maybe that’s a good thing, you know? People are changing, just like the world changed. We’re becoming less….”

“Materialistic?”

“Yeah.”

“Whoopie.” He stared at the Olympic. A big car, gleaming and black. A symbol of success, of wealth, of importance.

His new best friend, if he wanted to keep driving it.

“You know,” Ellen said, “Markham suggested that existing owners should replace their cars early — y’know, to end the bad relationship and start with a clean slate. We should have a pretty good quarter.”

“Sure, sure.”

“Especially because… well, there’s no reason for people to lease instead of buy, if they’re not going to replace their cars so quickly. More money for us, up front.”

“Up front, yeah. Though leases are more profitable. Especially when we sell the used car in the aftermarket.”

“Yeah, well.” Ellen sighed. “Maybe we won’t tell anyone.”

“And have it come out we held it back? We’d be sued for negligence.”

“Not to mention the chance we’d be haunted.”

“I remember when that was a joke.” Donald shook his head. “We’d better call Steele.”

“You want me to?”

Donald took a long breath. In and out. Focus. Calm. “Yeah,” he said. “Tell him I’m busy naming my car.”

Ellen nodded. “I’ll make it inside? Give you some privacy?”

“Sure, sure.”

Ellen went inside.

Donald turned back to the Olympic. “How’s Jezebel strike you? Will that seem teasingly ironic or will it piss you off and make you crash us some rainy night? Or maybe Hera. Hera lived on Olympus, and she was a jealous goddess, wasn’t she?”

Movement at the end of the driveway caught his eye. A cat — a somewhat scruffy looking calico — had paused in her neighborhood rounds to look inside the garage. She peered at Donald distrustfully.

Donald stared back for a long moment, then looked away. Satisfied, the cat sauntered away.

I was fascinated, because I had always enjoyed the classic Heinlein short story “Life Line.” Which was based on the invention of a machine that would tell you exactly when you would die. And was the first short story Heinlein ever published.

So I lept into writing a story to submit for the collection. And after forty-five hundred words it was ready.

The problem was, I had written an updating of “Life Line,” operating from an entirely different principle. See, “Life Line” had detailed the reaction of the world — most exactly the insurance industry — into this discovery of the moment of death. And that fascinated me. Besides, I didn’t think there were enough dark fantasy/sf stories about actuaries.

Which meant my high concept wasn’t the high concept. I had a story about a machine that would predict the moment of death, barring lifestyle change or misadventure.

So I wrote another story to submit. And then, right as it was ready for submission (and had been read by several people with advice), I hit the same dry period that the rest of my writing and online contact hit, and so it never went to them. Ah well, I’ll include it here sometime.

In the meantime, please enjoy “Death is a Moving Target.”

*** *** *** ***

“What is that?” Michael asked Bruce.

“Mm?” Bruce took another swig of the thick, viscous drink. It seemed to cling to the edge of the plastic tumbler.

“That. What are you drinking?”

“Oh. Mucitol. High fiber. Cleans you out, I guess.”

“You having trouble clearing ballast?” Michael signaled to the waiter.

“Nothing like that. Doc just says I need better diet. You know how it is.” He took another swig. “So I took to high fiber. Lot of good things about fiber.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, well. I’m going back on Thursday. I didn’t like my Hafner/Baugh date. Gonna see if I pushed it forward any.”

“By drinking library paste?”

“Maybe. If I get a few more months out of this, maybe I’d feel better….”

“Better?”

“Better about not, y’know. Givin’ up the smokes.”

Michael closed his eyes. “You could decide not to smoke for my benefit, you know. You’re probably not doing my Hafner/Baugh any joys, you know.”

“Not worryin’ about yours,” Bruce said. “Too much to think about already.”

“Well, thank you very much.” Michael got up, digging for his wallet.

“No worries,” Bruce said. “I got this.”

“You didn’t drink anything from the bar.”

Bruce shrugged. “Night’s not over yet.”

Michael nodded, walking towards the door.

“Hey,” Bruce called back. “Goin’ to Lindy?”

Michael paused, looking back. “Maybe.”
“You should. Girl’s good for you.”

“When did you become such an expert on what’s good for me?”

Bruce chuckled. “Man, no surprise what’s good for you.”

“Whatever.” Michael kept walking.

“‘Sides. You get back with her, you won’t care if I smoke!”

Michael didn’t answer. He didn’t need Bruce to tell him Lindy was good for him. He had scientific proof of that.

Michael’s cell phone rang. They Might Be Giants — “It Could Be Worse.” That meant the call was from a work number. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. Tommy’s pudgy face gleamed on it. God damn it. He couldn’t ignore Tommy. He flipped the phone open. “Yeah?”

“I need you in,” Tommy said. “Massachusetts passed the Child Screening Act eight minutes ago.”

Two weeks before, Michael would have been thrilled. “Why do you need me in?” he asked. “The bid’s ready. The bid’s been ready for a month.”

“They had amendments. Potentially lucrative amendments. We need to brainstorm — nothing huge. I won’t take too much of your weekend. You’ll be back doing whatever you and Lindy in an hour and a half.”

Lindy and I don’t do much of anything, Michael didn’t say to his boss. “I’m not the most sober right now,” he said instead.

“Good. That’ll lubricate things. Get in here.”

Michael sighed. “I’ll need a cab.”

“We’ll reimburse.”

“Okay.”

The cab took twenty minutes to arrive, more or less. Michael was just glad it wasn’t raining. He slid into the back and muttered “Two hundred east Rutherford B. Hayes” to the driver.

“No prob,” the driver called back with an undefined accent. “Radio okay?”

“Yeah.”

The cabbie grunted, pulling out and weaving into the streets. A bad pop song was playing, and Michael looked out the window. A billboard stuck out — muscular man and buff but feminine woman in bathing suits, next to a disgruntled skeleton in a cloak. All Pro Gym Workout, it advertised. Qualified Hafner/Baugh Physician on staff. Break your date with the Reaper!

“Sarah! Your date’s here!”

The pretty young woman on the television looked confused. “But I don’t have a date tonight–” Her face fell as the camera pulled back to show the Grim Reaper holding a rose.

The scene cut to a muscular man in a tee shirt and shorts, the girl working out on a Nautilus machine behind him. “We all have a date with the Reaper, but you can break that date with Tony Wilder’s All Pro Gym Workout! For an introductory price of just nineteen ninety-five and nineteen ninety-five a month with commitment you get access to our full facilities! And with a certified Hafner/Baugh physician on premises you can check your Hafner/Baugh date right here, once a week, and watch yourself break date after date with the Reaper!”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Lindy said, snapping the television off. “Would you look at me when I’m talking to you?”

“Fine,” Michael muttered, turning to glare at her. “Happy?”

Lindy rolled her eyes. *”No. *That’s what I’m saying. Jesus, Mike. Do you even care about this relationship?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Are you? I don’t think you’ve been here for months, Mike. And I’m sick of it.”

“So what do you want? Work’s been eating me alive!”

“Is that some kind of dig?”

“Jesus — no. I’m sorry that Hafner/Baugh ruined things for actuaries, okay? I’m sorry that Life and Health Trust decided they didn’t need you any more. But they still need me, all right? When do I stop being punished for something that isn’t my fault?”

“I work at Best Buy, Mike. I went from two hundred thousand a year to ‘would you like a protection plan with that?’”

Mike chuckled. “Same field, if you think about it.”

Lindy glared.

“Oh, Jesus, Lindy.” Mike pushed up out of his chair. “You don’t like it? Recertify. Get into health or pensions. Get into contingency theory.”

“No one’s hiring for those, Mike!”

“Because other morbidity specialists saw the handwriting on the wall and recertified early, Lindy! Hafner/Baugh means–”

“Hafner/Baugh’s a crock!”

Mike snorted, turning away. “No, it’s not,” he said. “And insurance workers who insist it is are the ones who end up at Best Buy.”

“It promises to tell you when you die, Mike. It says ‘this is the date you’re going to die.’ And you know as well as I do it’s not true.”

“Barring misadventure, act of God or lifestyle change, Lindy. You can’t–”

Lindy swore, storming to the other end of the living room.

“You can’t ignore that, Lindy. Yeah — the damn machine can’t tell a person they’re going to be hit by a car. The damn machine can’t predict if you’ll cut back on coffee or start exercising more. It’s a diagnostic tool — nothing more. But it’s a tool that works.”

“How many stupid people die every year because that machine tells them they’re invulnerable? Huh? You remember that snowboarder–”

“Jake Weiss was stupid. His Hafner/Baugh date was in — what, 2067? So he decided he couldn’t be killed. And he did a stupid stunt and he died. That doesn’t make Hafner/Baugh wrong. It means Jake Weiss was an idiot.”

“Yeah, well — actuarial science would have said he was an idiot. It would have said ‘health wise, Jake Weiss is in excellent condition, but lifestyle choices reduce his life expectancy significantly, and risk factors make him a poor candidate for life insurance.’”

“And if we still sold life insurance, that would mean something, Lindy. But we don’t. We sell accidental death and dismemberment. We sell property insurance. We sell End of Life Plans–”

Lindy snorted again.

“Yeah, you laugh all you like, Lindy. Give people a sense of when they’re going to die, and they focus on that. You sell them a product that helps them live well. You sell them a plan that both pushes back their Hafner/Baugh date as much as possible, gives them Accidental Death and Dismemberment, and gives them an estate they pay into for their funeral expenses and to leave their families a fu–”

“It was damn hard to become an actuary, Michael. It involves math that makes most people scream. It involves learning probability and economics and risk assessment. And it’s not glamorous, which is why there were never that many of us to begin with.”

“I’m sorry, Lindy. I really am. You should have been set for life.”

Lindy laughed. It was a desperate laugh, close to tears. “Maybe you can sell me an End of Life Plan.”

Michael looked down, then walked over to Lindy. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Look,” he said. “We… we can work something out. You have business and math skills — there must be–”

“I can’t do this any more,” Lindy said.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Michael said. “You need to understand that things have changed. The world has–”

“No,” Lindy said, turning to face Michael. Her eyes were red. “I can’t do this any more. We used to be equals. Now you’re an executive and I work at Best Buy. I can’t do this any more.”

Michael’s heart skipped. “Lindy–”

“Hey! Sixteen-eighty-five!”

Michael sat up in the cab with a jerk. “What?” he asked, blinking.

“We here. Sixteen-eighty-five.”

Michael blinked again, looking around. They were outside of the Hartmann Building, where the corporate offices of Life and Health Trust were located. “Yeah,” he said, fishing for his wallet. “I’m gonna need a receipt.”

Tommy was in his office — an expansive, corner affair. He was dropping ice into old fashioned glasses as Michael walked in. Jenn was already there. “Michael!” he shouted, grinning. “How are you?”

“Drunk,” Michael said, dropping into a chair. “I thought the floor vote wasn’t until tomorrow.”

“Yes, well, politicians surprise you sometimes. But they passed it. Assuming the Governor doesn’t mess around–”

“He won’t,” Jenn said, a smirk on her face. “The Governor doesn’t want to look unsympathetic to the needs of children.”

“This is a banner day for L.H.T.,” Tommy said. “A banner day. Each and every student getting screened once a month. Each and every student taking home a report that lists their current expected date of death, along with all kinds of recommendations on how to push that day farther and farther away. Recommendations for sports, for nutrition, for–”

“You said there were changes? Amendments?”

“You’ll love this,” Jenn said. “At the eleventh hour, they forced through an amendment requiring schools to provide end of life planning as a part of the process.”

Michael blinked, accepting the glass of scotch from Tommy. “You’re telling me that public schools are — by law — going to have to help ten year old kids plan for their funerals?”

“Ain’t that a kick in the head?” Tommy asked, sitting across from Michael and Jenn. “Some days, it’s no bad thing to be a professional ghoul.”

“I resent that,” Jenn said. “We’re providing a service–”

Tommy laughed. “We’re hitching our train to a cultural death obsession. You know it. I know it. Michael knows it. The day these people found out how long they had to live, it was like nothing else mattered. ‘Make the most of life,’ they say, but what they mean is ‘push back the death date as much as you can, and be ready for it.’”

Michael shook his head, looking at the water beading on the outside of his scotch glass. “I wonder what an actuary would make of all this?”

“I am an actuary,” Tommy said. “And I plan to make several million dollars out of all this, thank you. So! How do we adjust the bid? Or are you too drunk to–”

“Do three levels,” Michael answered immediately. “Basic would come with the core bid — let the state pay the money they’re willing to pay, and give a basic End-Of-Life package with it. We can work out how much money goes into the account per year the student has basic, with an option of banking that for five years after High School graduation or turning it into a Collegiate package then. Either way, post college they can either get a sharply reduced payout with penalties and call that a benefit for having gone to school in the first place or–”

“Or convert to a standard End of Life Plan either through a workplace or on their own,” Jenn picked up. “That was my thinking. Two other plans?”

“Sure. For ten bucks a visit additional, a student could have… I dunno, call it ‘Living Well.’ Add in a discount with partnered health clubs. Add in nutritional counseling at partnered centers. Up the amount of money set aside for the eventual plan per year. Hell, you could loss lead it a little — give a kid who converts instead of gets the payout fifteen dollars a month at end of life for every ten he puts into Living Well, which means he’s invested into the product itself and he’ll want to stick with us.”

“And the top?” Tommy asked.

“We’ll need to go through the process, but we want to make this attractive. Make it more about status than security. You know the tapdance. Call it an investment in the future. Throw in financial planning. Throw in discounts at upper end stores with the card. And throw in an automatic conversion to Capital College Gold when they graduate, without the initiation fee. By the time they’re out of college they’ll either take a sharply discounted payoff that’s a lot more than–”

“I see what you’re saying.” Tommy grins. “Throw in a lot of Health and Wellness shit with it. I mean, remember — we want these kids living to ripe old ages. The longer they live–”

“The more money we make,” Jenn finished. “That’s the best part of this whole thing. We can be as greedy as we like and it’s still in everyone’s best interests that people live healthy, long lives.”

“Yeah,” Michael said, drinking a healthy gulp.

“Michael,” Tommy said, looking sidelong at him. “You’re not sharing in our joy, tonight? Do you have an objection?”

“Not remotely,” Michael said. “We’re gonna make a fortune. I’m entirely behind that.”

“Then what’s the matter.” His smile grew slightly knowing. “How’s Lindy?”

“Wouldn’t rightly know. I haven’t seen her for ten days.”

“I knew it,” Tommy said. “I thought ‘now why would Michael be drinking on a Friday night?’ Especially if he could hear his cell phone in the first place, which meant he wasn’t out celebrating. That’s a good girl, Michael. How’d you lose her?”

“That’s a pretty rude question, Tommy. How do you know I did something wrong?”

Tommy just snorted.

Jenn shifted. “Did she want you to quit?”

“Why would Lindy want Michael to quit?” Tommy snapped. “He’s doing good work here. Making good money–”

“She was doing good work here too,” Jenn said. “Until we fired her and everyone like her.”

“What? You want me to keep a pile of highly paid professionals I don’t need on salary? We don’t sell Life Insurance any more, Jenn. I don’t need people to make recommendations and build tables for a product I don’t sell.”

“Enough, guys,” Michael said. The scotch was making his face numb. “She made her choice. She decided that someone would want to hire her when L.H.T. dropped her. She was wrong.”

“You know. Hartford Life couldn’t adapt. That’s why they’re not in business any more.” Tommy’s smile was almost predatory.

“I really, really don’t want to argue about this,” Michael said. “Lindy’s brilliant. Sooner or later she’ll decide she wants to work in this world and she’ll make a change.”

“Where is she now?” Jenn asked.

Michael paused. “She’s working in the technology sector,” he said.

Tommy laughed. “See? There’s always a way to rebound. Okay. Let’s start figuring out campaigns. I’m going to get the ball rolling — get the word to the workforce that tomorrow’s a work day.” He half-stormed to his desk, ready to make the first call.

“So why are you drunk tonight?” Jenn asked quietly.

“Hm?” Michael asked.

“It sounds like she left you ten days ago. Why are you drunk tonight?”

Michael looked at the ice in his otherwise empty glass. “You think you know what kind of impact someone has on your life. But you have no idea, Jenn. You have no idea.”

“Go on?” Jenn leaned forward. “Seriously. I want to know.”

Michael sighed. “I saw my doctor this morning.”

“–looks like your range of motion’s back to normal. PT still going okay?” Doctor Rivers asked.

“Yeah,” Michael said. “Doug says I could get back on the golf course if you say it’s okay.”

“Well, I’m willing to say it’s okay if you’re willing not to go crazy on your swing any more.” He smiled. “A quick Hafner/Baugh screening and we’ll call you healthy.”

“Okay,” Michael said, slipping out of his shoes. “Hey, why do you screen every time I come in. Just to charge my insurance for the test?”

Doctor Rivers laughed. “Nice try, Mister Insurance Guy, but at this point the copay automatically includes a screening. In fact, I’d be liable if I didn’t screen you when I saw you.”
He began setting up the machine, nodding for Michael to sit in the chair. “Too much diagnostic potential. Don’t forget, death is a moving target. If you suddenly had your Hafner/Baugh date move up, that would tell us some kind of environmental or lifestyle factor had changed.”

“Yeah, I know,” Michael said. “But that doesn’t happen to me. My Hafner/Baugh’s been steady for years. June 17, 2061.”

“And we want to keep it there,” Doctor Rivers said. “No talking please. Put this in your mouth and hold these in your hands.” He stepped around to the machine, and began to work it. After a moment, it hummed and made a couple of ‘thunking’ sounds.

Michael stared up at the ceiling. Someone had taped a picture of a waterfall there. He supposed it was to calm the patients down. In Michael’s case it made him want to pee.

“Michael?” Doctor Rivers sounded off, somehow.

“Yeah?”

“I want you to come with me to the other examination room. I want to retest you in there.”

Michael blinked. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m worried about a misconfiguration, is all. C’mon.”

Michael followed his doctor into the next examination room. They went through the routine there — right down to the ‘thunking’ noises. Michael always imagined it was punching tickets when it made those sounds. All aboard the death train….

Doctor Rivers was frowning as he walked back into view. “We’re going to test you a third time, over at the ER,” he said. “In the meantime, have you had any significant changes in lifestyle since the last time you came in here?”

“What? Well, I’m not golfing right now–”

“We can compensate for recoverable injury, and there’s a predicable shift in Hafner/Baugh after laying off regular exercise in recuperation. I expected you to lose a little time from the date–”

Michael sat up, frowning. “Wait. What is my Hafner/Baugh date?”

“Like I said, I want to compare the result with a machine back in the ER–”

“Okay, but what result are you comparing it to?”

Doctor Rivers took a deep breath. “Well, both the practice’s HBS’s come back with April 8th, 2049.”

Michael stared.

“Now, if the ER bears it out, we’ll start doing a test battery–”

“I’m not exercising as much,” he said. “My recovery–”

“Like I said, we could predict that shift. I’d expect something in 2057 or 2058 at the earliest. And you’ve been doing P.T.”

“There must be something…” Michael’s head was swimming. “Could this be a tumor or something?”

“We don’t know, Michael. But if it were cancer or even precancerous, it’s likely your Hafner/Baugh would drop a lot faster. And it’d be pretty new. We can do an environmental study–”

“Nothing’s changed in my environment,” Michael said, rubbing his head. “Could it have been developing? Something I was exposed to back–”

Doctor Rivers put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Michael,” he said quietly. “It has to be a new change. Otherwise, your Hafner/Baugh would have reflected it all along.”

“That thing isn’t perfect,” Michael snapped.

“No, it’s not. But it’s very well tested. Now listen to me, Michael. We’re going to do everything we can for you. We’re going to verify the date on at least one other HBS. We’ll do a complete metabolic workup. We’ll run a lot of tests, and we’ll get you into nutritional and exercise counseling. And we’ll try to figure out what changed in your environment. Sometimes it can be the smallest thing–”

Michael stopped walking. His face felt numb. “Oh God,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Lindy.”

“I’ll talk to her — you won’t have to explain this to her alone, Michael–”

“No. No, you don’t understand.” He looked at the Doctor. “We broke up eight days ago. I mean, it sounds stupid, but… but do you think….”

Doctor Rivers took a deep breath. “It’s not stupid at all, Michael. We see Hafner/Baugh variations when relationships change. It happens all the time.”

“But I haven’t done anything differently since she left.”

“Not consciously. But your habits change at times like this. In men, often diet will worsen. You’re depressed. Out of sorts. And you lose the real benefits of her presence. Sometimes a loved one just makes life better — and there’s a real and tangible medical benefit to that.”

Michael slumped down. He’d mostly gotten over the heartache. Even the loneliness had gotten better. He had been adjusting. “Maybe… maybe once I get used to her being gone–”

“It doesn’t work like that, Michael. If you make some positive changes in lifestyle–”

“I’ll meet someone else. That’ll fix it, right?”

Doctor Rivers smiled sadly. “Maybe and maybe not. Maybe you’re the sort of person who needs someone. Anyone. Or maybe you need her. I don’t know. I do know this is a pretty big mortality jump.”

“What… what if we got back together?”

“I don’t know, Michael. I can’t make any promises, either way.”

“But it wouldn’t make it worse, would it?”

“Probably not. But come on. This might be unrelated to Lindy — we’re going to figure it out. All right?”

“All right,” Michael said. But he already knew the answer.

#

The Best Buy was like every one Michael had been in. Bright lights. Shiny gadgets. Some guys in black and white in the corner. Workers in uniform — however casual — working the aisles.

He found her just next to the high definition televisions. She was working on the budget DVD rack. Old movies for ten bucks. He’d never seen her at work before, wearing the cobalt blue jersey, the khaki pants. A yellow name tag. Her black hair was braided back — she looked maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, not the thirty-two he knew she was.

She didn’t see him approach. He scooped up one of the ten dollar DVD’s — Lifeline. Science fiction thing that’d come out within a few months of the Hafner/Baugh process. “Did you ever see this?” he asked. “It got everything wrong.”

Lindy’s back tensed, and she turned. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I want to buy a new television,” Michael said. “Something really big and loud.”

“Michael — I don’t want to have this scene,” Lindy said, turning away. “I’m working.”

“I’ll want a three year protection plan, too.”

“Are you making fun of me?” Lindy demanded, whirling to face him again.

“I love you,” Michael said, quietly. “I need you, Lindy.”

Lindy stared, her eyes widening.

“I can’t… I can’t do this,” he said. “I need you in my life, Lindy. You have no idea how badly. I… it took me a pretty bad shock to figure out just how important–”

“Don’t,” Lindy whispered. “Don’t, Michael.”

“You missed me, didn’t you?”

“Michael….”

“Just answer me that, Lindy. I know you love me. I know there was something there. Tell me you missed me. Or tell me you didn’t and I’ll leave.”

Lindy bit her lip, shivering and turning away. “Of course I missed you,” she whispered.

“Then come home.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I want to, but I can’t.”

“Is it the job?”

“Michael–”

“I’ll quit.”

Lindy stared.

“Seriously. If it’s the job I’ll quit. I’ll fill out an application before I leave the store. The job doesn’t mean anything without you in my life, Lindy.”

“It’s not the job,” she said softly. “You’re bad for me, Michael.”

“We can go to counseling,” Michael said. “I’ll change–”

“That’s not what I mean,” Lindy said. She looked torn.

No. She looked guilty.

Michael felt his heart squeeze. “Is there someone else?”

“Michael–”

“It’s all right if there is,” he said, a little too quickly. “We broke up. You… of course you would–”

“There’s no one else, Michael. You’re bad for me.”

Michael felt his breath leave his body. “What do you mean?” he asked after a moment.

Lindy turned her head. She clearly couldn’t look at him. “I got tested at my gym, the day after we broke up. I’ve been tested twice more since then.”

“Tested?” Michael asked, knowing all too well the answer.

“Michael… I gained two years on my Hafner/Baugh date. Two years. My therapist thinks it’s getting out from under the stress of the relationship–”

“We can change our environment,” Michael said softly. “We’ll go to the gym. We’ll eat better. We can–”

“Oh Jesus, listen to yourself,” Lindy said. “I already go to a gym, Michael. Besides, I’m an actuary, remember? All my training comes down to assessing risk versus reward.”

Michael took a breath. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you’re not a good risk, Michael. It’s unlikely we could make those two years up with lifestyle changes — at least without becoming pretty miserable in the process. So it all comes down to whether you’re worth two years of my life.”

Michael’s face burned.

“I’m sorry, Michael. I really am.”

“Yeah,” he said. “No, of course. You’re right.”

Lindy tried to smile. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, Michael. You’re young, you’re a hotshot executive. Hey — I heard the Child Screening Act got passed. You’re going to have a great year. Any woman would be glad–”

Can they give me eleven years of my life back? Michael thought. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. I’ll… I should go.”*

*Lindy bit her lip, and hugged Michael. “It’ll be okay,” she murmured.

Michael held her tightly. He tried to memorize her scent….

Lindy let go. “Besides,” she said, trying wanly to smile. “Even with those two years you’ll outlive me by a year. Everyone wins, right?”

Michael felt dead already. “Death is a moving target,” he said. “I’m thinking I’m going to start taking better care of myself.”

The PA crackled. “Lindy to cash. Lindy to cash.”

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

Michael nodded. “I’ll see you around,” he said. He watched her leave. Watched her walk away. Eleven years.

More than that. He watched her walk away, and he knew he didn’t want her to.

He breathed out, slowly, and headed for the door. Time to see what he could do to push the Hafner/Baugh out a little farther. Maybe see a nutritionist. Get into a gym — maybe her gym, so they’d see each other at the gym sometimes. Or maybe not. Still. Now that his old life was over, it was time to start taking death a little more seriously.

Ain’t that a kick in the head?