Of course, it occurs to me that Greg Fishbone, my former editor, children’s author, and man about town, might well have a copy of the file sitting on a zip disk somewhere. On the other hand, I think he has better ways to spend his time than coming up with my old crap for these purposes.

Anyway, here then is the third chapter in our story. I hope you like it. And yeah, I know full well there’ll be theories on what the All American Lad could have done differently. Just keep it to 1946 technology, if you will. ;)

I sat on the ground, staring at Victoria Esterhaus, who was lying next to me. I’d gotten the helmet off her face – it was her all right. The same black curly hair. The same delicate features. She looked like she should be playing the Queen of the May in a Junior College play. Not wearing a ton of metal and flying around the city, burning criminals.

I was good at first aid – you kind of have to be, in that line of work. I got her bandaged, and I got a blanket from my motorcycle – sneaking around. I didn’t want to talk to the police right now. There was too much I had to figure out.

She probably had some cracked ribs, but none of them seemed broken through. That armor shell might have been shattered by Browbeat, but it also cut the blow enough to keep her alive, if unconscious. I wrapped her up, and I started for Topaz City Mercy Hospital…

And I coasted to a stop.

I couldn’t take her in the front door. Oh, sure, she’d had her name published. But no one knew what “V. Esterhaus” looked like, and pretty much everyone assumed Lieutenant Blockbuster was male. If I blew her identity….

I couldn’t do that. No matter how much I resented Lieutenant Blockbuster, you didn’t mess with a Mystery Man’s secret identity. You just didn’t.

Besides… it was easy to hate the iron soldier rocketing over the city so smugly. It was harder to hate a girl who’d saved your life and nearly gotten herself killed doing it.

I sped off again, heading for home. I didn’t know what else I could do. I had to talk to Sam… I had to get Blockbuster under cover.

I had to figure out what to do about Browbeat — a man who flung cars like baseballs. A man I shot in the eyes eight times and didn’t even scratch.

I got her up the fire escape and through the back window. My mother was shocked. “Lad,” she half-shouted — she was great when it came to keeping my identity, just in case — “who–”

“Lieutenant Blockbuster,” I snapped. “She’s hurt. Get Sam up here — and we need to get her a change of clothes before we can take her to the hospital.”

My father blinked and ran for the door, to go and get Sam. I brought Blockbuster into my room, and laid her on the bed. I started examining her to work out just how badly her ribs were cracked — which made me glad my mask covered my face, I was blushing so much.

“You’re good at that,” she said weakly.

“Huh? Oh. Thanks.” I kept working. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since… since the motorcycle.” She closed her eyes. “I finally… got to ride with the All-American Lad.”

My mouth dropped open… just then the door burst open and Sam came in with Dad, carrying his first aid kit. “So, this is the famous Blockbuster,” he asked?

I nodded. “She took a hit — some guy who bounced bullets like raindrops. I’ve never seen anything like it–”

Sam frowned. “So not all the Gods are good ones,” he murmured.

“We’re not Gods,” Blockbuster half-moaned. “Have to… get home….”

“Nuh-uh,” I said. “You need to get changed, so we can get you to a hospital. You’ve got some banged up ribs, and you’re lucky you don’t have a punctured lung. You have to get checked out.”

She opened her eyes and mouth to argue, then closed them and nodded.

Sam and Dad took her. They were going to claim she got smacked by a door in Sam’s shop. I watched her go, then sat at the kitchen table.

“Was it bad,” Mom asked.

“It wasn’t good,” I said. “He shattered that metal shell she wore with one punch.”

Mom nodded. “And you’re going after him?”

“It’s my job.”

She nodded again. “Lenny?”

I looked at her. “Yeah?”

“Don’t worry about fighting fair. Just stop him.”

I looked down. “I already shot him eight times in the eyes. It made him run, but it didn’t hurt him. I don’t know how much dirtier I can fight.”

Mom frowned. “Well then. I guess you’ll have to find something better than shooting him in the eyes.”

#

The Ninth Precinct wardroom was somber when I walked in. They knew me there — no one questioned me walking in.

“Hey Sarge,” I said to Desk Sergeant Carlotti. “Any word on Browbeat?”

He snorted. “No. And I hope it stays that way.”

“Good. We can start planning how to take him down, then.”

He gave me a long look.

I frowned, and looked around. Six or seven cops were all staring at me. “Come on, boys,” I said. “The city’s counting on us.”

“Then the city made a mistake,” Officer Gerber said sullenly, his hands in his pockets.

“Hey!” I looked around again. “I know how it looks–”

“C’mon, Lad,” Carlotti said. “These are good cops, but you saw that monster. We can’t stop him.”

“He barely noticed us,” Officer Rossi said. “I emptied two clips into him, and I was just an annoyance.”

“Yeah, you shot him in the eyes!” Gerber said.

“And that drove him off! He’s not invulnerable, guys!”

“Drove him off but didn’t really hurt him. It just stung him,” Carlotti said. “Besides….”

I looked at him. “Besides what?” I asked quietly.

He shuffled, hands in his pockets. He looked like a little kid instead of a veteran cop. “You saw what he did to Lieutenant Blockbuster,” he said. “He killed him with one punch!”

“Blockbuster isn’t dead,” I snapped. “I took care of he-him. Got him to medical attention.”

“He might as well be dead,” Gerber said. “We have what’s left of that metal shell he wore? It looks like a couple guys took it apart with jackhammers! I’m just a cop! What do I do–”

“Hey!” I shouted. “Stop it, all of you!”

That got their attention. And not in a good way. But I stuck to my guns. “Look, Lieutenant Blockbuster’s tough. We all know it! And Browbeat scares you. Well he scares me too. But he’s not all powerful. We don’t need superpowers to stop him. We need each other and we need our brains and we need to have a plan! We know he’ll be back. And we have to be ready for him, once and for all!”

“Geez, Lad — how are we supposed to do that?” Rossi asked. “Blockbuster–”

“Blockbuster had firepower. God or science gave Blockbuster abilities we don’t have. But that doesn’t mean we can’t level that playing field. Gerber — is your brother still stationed up at the National Guard base?”

“Well, sure — but we can’t call out the Guard! That would take the Governor, and if we call the Governor’s mansion and tell them we can’t protect Topaz City from–”

“We’re not gonna call out the Guard, but can your brother get his hands on some ordinance for us?”

“They don’t just hand out machine guns, Lad,” Carlotti said. “Gerber’s brother could get in a lot of trouble.”

“Maybe — but I know the Colonel.” He was one of the few who knew why Second Lieutenant Len Davis was awarded a Silver Star. “I don’t think I could get him to authorize some heavy firepower — that’d call attention to himself — but I bet I can arrange some unofficial blind spots for Gerber’s brother to get us the gear.”

Rossi frowned. “You really think it’ll work, Lad? Against Browbeat?”

“I think we need to try. He’s still human, no matter how thick his skin is. And if he’s human, he can be hurt.” I looked around. “I know. It’s scary. It was a little awe inspiring to think about heroes with these weird powers, and now it’s frightening to think of criminals with them. But no matter what they can do, they’re still people. The law still applies to them. And when they break the law, we go in and stop them. Right?”

There wasn’t any response.

“Right?”

This time there was a half-hearted ‘right’ from a half-dozen or so of them.

“Okay. Then let’s get to work. We’ll take this bruiser yet!”

The organization and setup were surprisingly easy. The Colonel was more than happy to help, and even loaned us a couple of Guard soldiers to actually use the equipment. Which looking back I’m pretty sure was illegal about six different ways, but this was a new world for him, too. When we actually began organizing, enthusiasm built up. I mean, I get it — it’s hard not to feel helpless, sometimes. But when you actually knuckle down and start doing, it shakes you out of it.

We set up a loose network, beat cops staying close to their callboxes. If they saw someone matching the description — or, you know, throwing a bus or something — they’d call it in. Dispatch would get our new “Anti-Browbeat” squad dispatched. The plan was I’d go in ahead. I’d stung him — a little — in our last encounter, and so we hoped I’d be good bait. We’d tangle a bit, while giving the squad a chance to set up, and then?

Then the Colonel’s help would kick in. That help was a couple of privates and what was officially called the Rocket Launcher M9, but what most people just called a bazooka. These things took out German tanks — I had to believe they’d take out Browbeat.

Of course, Lieutenant Blockbuster was known for being able to take out German tanks too. But I wasn’t thinking about that. I was pretty actively not thinking about Blockbuster in any way, really. Which probably makes sense. On the one hand, I felt guilty. I’d had such a hate on for her. On the other hand, I still resented her for all the same reasons. And on a third hand, she’d saved my life. Sure, I was grateful, but I’m given to understand some Japanese words for ‘gratitude’ can also translate as ‘resentment,’ and that’s what I was feeling. I resented Victoria Esterhaus for saving my life — for being able to save my life when there was little or nothing I could have done to save myself. It took me out of the role of hero and into the role of victim, and I didn’t like that.

Irrational? Sure. I mean, if you think about it I also saved her life. But I was feeling better now that I had a plan to stop that behemoth with normal men and a normal, if powerful, weapon.

It was a day and a half before the call went out. He was seen on Forty-third, heading for the bank. Me and the boys rolled out almost immediately.

I swear, he looked bigger. His hair was wild, almost like an animal’s, and his eyes were wide. He looked like he was on uppers, staring every which way, his back almost vibrating as he walked.

“Browbeat!” I shouted. I know. I’d had a day and a half to come up with witty repartee and all I could say was ‘Browbeat.’ Sue me.

He turned to face me. His face contorted and he hunched down. “You!” he spat. “You shot me in the eyes!”

“You should thank me — you look better with your hands covering your face.”

“Funny man,” he said. “So funny.” And he scooped up a ’42 Packard and threw it at me. Just like that. He reached out, grabbed the back of the car — I think it was a 160 Family Sedan? You know the ones, with the long body in two tone? Sort of wagonish?

I guess you don’t really care. It was a big car, and his fingers gripped into the metal like it was butter, and he heaved it up and at me in one fluid motion, like he was scooping up a baseball. If I sound amazed, it’s because I was then and I still am now. The ease of it. I kept forgetting this guy wasn’t like me.

I dove to one side and the car smashed behind me, skidding, I fired four quick shots, two from each revolver, bouncing them off his skull. He was being cagy enough that getting another eye shot would be hard, but I didn’t care. I was trying to keep his attention while the privates got the artillery ready. He charged at me, growling like some kind of animal. I dove to the left and rolled — waiting until the last second so he wouldn’t have a chance to wheel around, and I tossed a gas grenade at him. I didn’t normally carry these, but I knew where to get ahold of them and I wanted to hurt him.

My luck, he didn’t seem to care about the gas. He didn’t cough, his eyes didn’t sting — he just whirled and leaned down and tore a chunk of pavement out and threw it at me. This time he caught a piece of me, too — I was doing another leap to dodge but a chunk of the pavement separated on his throw and tagged me in the leg. Even through the thick leather it felt like I’d been clubbed, but I ignored it and did a forward roll, coming up with guns hot and firing another couple of shots. I swear they almost sparked as they bounced off his skin, it was so hard.

“You’re just trying to get me mad,” he growled at me. “Don’t you get it? You’re nothing but a bug to me, ‘All American Lad!’ This is my town now, and no one’s takin’ it away from me!”

“You never had it to begin with!” I snapped. “If you keep this up, you’re going to get hurt — is that what you want?”

He stared at me for a moment. And then he chuckled. “I’m going to get hurt?” he asked. “Are you even paying attention?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Better believe I am.” And the boys fired from the roof of a brownstone.

It was a beautiful shot — nailed him in the back, halfway down, the shell exploding on impact. He screamed something as the explosion threw him forward, rolling, the remnants of his shirt burning before he hit the Western Auto storefront, shattering the window and sliding to the ground.

I grinned. “Yes!” I shouted, running to the side, covering him with my guns and keeping out of the way of the bazooka fire–

Browbeat pushed up onto his feet. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you?” he asked.

I blinked. “That was a bazooka,” I said. “That’s not possible. I was a little worried it would kill you!”

“Yeah, I’d stop worrying about that,” he said, and rushed me.

The boys fired a second shot, but he was running now, so they just managed to take out that Western Auto — fortunately, everyone in it had run when he threw the car. I dove to the side, but this time he swung an arm like a hook, snagging my left leg and hurling me across the street like a ragdoll. I felt blind panic for a half-second, and then I felt the bricks I smashed into. Bullets began bouncing off Browbeat as the cops began shooting. Some of the bullets sounded high powered. Rifles of some sort. They might as well have used spitballs.

I didn’t make it back to my feet before he got hold of me. The guns went silent as he lifted me up. He pulled me close and looked me in the eyes. “You talk and you talk and you talk,” he said, very quietly. Almost like he was hissing. “But you don’t listen. Your little toys can’t hurt me. I don’t care if they go pop or they go boom. They can’t hurt me. You can’t hurt me. I didn’t want to cause trouble during the war — that was big. It was a war. But it’s over now, and this town is mine now, and you need to remember that.”

I didn’t answer. I was scared, and in a lot of pain, and there was nothing to say. Tough talk would have just sounded stupid.

He leaned close, and almost crooned. “I want you to think about this, All American Lad. I want you to go home and think all this over. I want your policemen friends to think about this. I want everyone down here to think about this.” His nose almost touched mine, we were so close. “You can’t. Hurt. Me. All you can do is get hurt yourself. And to be honest, I’m sick of you trying. So I’m going to go away for one week. One week, ‘Lad.’ And then I’m going to come back and make a day of it. And anyone who gets in my way or tries to stop me is going to die. Do you understand me?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Do you hear the words coming out of my mouth, boy?!” he roared.

“Yes!” I snapped. “But you better be ready to kill us, then.”

He laughed. “Kid, I’m ready to kill you right now.” And he threw me halfway down the block, into a pack of cops.

The throw hurt. My shoulders hurt from where he squeezed them. My whole body hurt from slamming into the brick wall. I felt nauseous. I felt humiliated.

I felt small.

But I pushed up. The cops around me were getting up, too. “Jeez, Lad,” Gerber said. “What’re we gonna do?”

“Plan B,” I said.

The privates were running across the street. “We couldn’t get another shot,” the P.F.C. in charge of the detail said. “I didn’t want another miss and then he was holding you and then he jumped off–”

“It’s all right,” I said. “Next time, we just have to be smart. I’ll try to get him in position and then you need to shoot for his eyes. I know they can at least sting him when I shoot them, so–”

“Aim for the eyes?” the Private said. “Jeez Louise, Lad — this is a bazooka. At even short ranges it’s hard to aim at a tank and hit it. You think I can do rifle sharpshooting with it?”

“There’s not going to be the next time,” Carlotti said. “I was talking to the Captain before this came down. He said if it failed, he was going to call the Governor. This is the National Guard’s problem.”

“Hey, we weren’t even supposed to be here today,” the second private complained. “What, you’re going to have the Governor declare Topaz City a state of emergency for one guy?”

“This one guy threw a car like it was made’a balsa wood!” Rossi shouted. “This ain’t a normal situation!”

“It’s going to be,” the P.F.C. shouted. “Don’t you get it? It’s one guy today, and then another tomorrow, and another after that — are you gonna put the city under Martial Law every time one of these freaks show up?”

“If we got more gear, and better training,” Carlotti said.

“Oh no way,” Gerber said. “When the War ended, I got outta the army. I’m not gonna stick around for a new one.”

I rubbed my brow, tuning out the fight. I felt a hand on my shoulder.

It was Sam. He must have heard about the fight on the radio and come down to see it. “Hey,” I said.

“You did good,” he said quietly. “Very brave. I was very proud.”

“I got my butt kicked,” I said. “I couldn’t hurt him.”

We walked to where I had my bike parked. I was limping. I know he wanted to offer me a hand — some support, to let me lean on him — but he didn’t. He knew the All American Lad had to walk on his own, without a civilian’s help. “You didn’t give up. Next time, you’ll find a way.”

I shook my head. “You don’t understand,” I said. “The gas didn’t stop him. The bazooka didn’t stop him. What, next time I’ll carry a grenade and try to get it on his eyes? Or acid or something? Sooner or later, I’m not being a hero. I’m just finding more and more brutal things to shoot at him. And who knows if any of them will work.”

“I liked your plan,” he said. “The one about shooting him in the eyes with the bazooka?”

“Yeah,” I said, shaking my head. “I liked it too, but the soldiers are right. Bazookas aren’t designed for precision aiming, but nothing we have that can be aimed that precisely would hurt Browbeat. I mean, maybe if we got a high enough powered sniper rifle, but I’m not sure even a fifty cal to his eye would stop him.”

“There must be a way to have a sniper’s precision with a shell’s power, Lad. You just need to figure it out.”

And then it hit me.

“Lad?”

“Excuse me, Sam,” I said softly. “I have to go.”

I got into civvie clothes before going into the hospital. I managed to get her room number, and headed up to see her. We needed to talk before visiting hours were over.

As it turned out, my timing was about perfect. She had put on a pair of slacks and a blouse, and was clearly waiting to be picked up. I knocked on the door frame.

She turned. “Yes?” she asked.

“Victoria, we need to talk,” I said.

She cocked her head and looked at me. “Do I know you?” She seemed so petite, standing there.

I took out the silver star badge I wore. We’d always worn badges — the whole western thing, after all. Mine was silver now because I was the sheriff, and because I’d been awarded a Silver Star, and even though I couldn’t officially make the connection, it meant something to me.

She looked at it, and comprehension flashed in her eyes. She blushed and turned away. “I meant to thank you,” she said. “You saved my life.”

“You saved mine first,” I said softly.

She shrugged. “I should have stayed out of it. Let you handle him. I’m sor–”

“I couldn’t have handled him. I can’t handle him, Victoria. He nearly killed me today.”

She stopped, and turned to look at me.

I looked down. “He’s not my enemy, Victoria. My enemies were guys like Desperado Dan or Dapper Boy Thompkins or Doctor Hans Konrad. Normal guys. Maybe a little smarter or a lot more evil than their neighbors, but normal guys. This is your enemy. And we need Lieutenant Blockbuster.”

She looked at me for a long moment. “You’re out of uniform,” she murmured. “I don’t know what to call you.”

“Len,” I said, softly. “Len Davis.”

“Well, Len Davis… you have a problem.” She looked down. “Lieutenant Blockbuster is dead.”

I like “Homecoming.” I like it in part because it examines heroism, and in part because it examines transition, and in part because it shows a very heroic person having very unheroic thoughts. In a way, if a lot of Justice Wing is informed by DC Comics, then “Homecoming” is informed by Marvel. Human beings with human frailties doing the best they can to overcome their flaws and do the right thing.

This part also makes the ‘historical record’ nature explicit, which I think fits The Home Front, as I’ve mentioned before.

I hope you enjoy!

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

-hope these interviews help you with your movie. I’m just not sure anyone will much care about me and how my vigilante career ended. There must be more important stories to-

No, no. I don’t mean to tell you your business. I’m sure you’ve got everything taken care of. Well, let’s go back to 1946, shall we? I told you about that first night I went solo – that first night I met Lieutenant Blockbuster, the new kid in town. The super hero.

I looked up the good Lieutenant’s career when I went home. The papers had covered him, all right. He was in Life’s “America Powers in Europe” article, on the fourth page. Just a short caption about “America’s One-Man Exploding Shell,” and references to the war in Italy. The newspaper listed him as Lt. V. Esterhaus, and he was indeed from Topaz City. Which frankly made me angrier.

Mom and Dad were really understanding. They listened to me rant about “that nut in the metal shell” for a good hour, and never said a word about how unreasonable I was being.

Sam finally came upstairs and calmed me down. He asked me what was wrong, and I started to go off again – but he interrupted me.

“So,” he said. “One of the gods lives in Topaz City, and you’re feeling very human?”

I blinked. “Lieutenant Blockbuster’s no god-”

“Really? I don’t know how else to describe him. Destroyed a car with a gesture from two hundred feet in the air? Set fire from the heavens at his will, and flew off without a care in the world? I think maybe we need a better word for him than – what did your mother say you said? A ‘nut in a metal shell?’”

I looked out the window, still fuming. “So he’s got powers. So what. That doesn’t make him a god, or anything else. He-”

“Oh Len… Lenny Lenny Lenny. What will we do with you, hm?

“This isn’t about me” I snapped back. “I mean – who knows what that guy is capable of. What if he starts lording it over us? What if he starts-”

“He served well in the War, didn’t he?”

I didn’t answer.

“Len… I understand. Really, I do. We all want to make a difference, but even more, we want our differences to stand out. To be recognized. You’re a very special man. You serve this city and you served this country. You’re good at it, and you worked very hard to become so. The idea of this man appearing and doing the same thing so effortlessly… well, it hurts, doesn’t it?”

“I guess…” I said.

“You’re a proud boy. But don’t let your pride color your feelings. Don’t let it turn to jealousy. You do your best. You help people. That’s why you’re doing this, right? To help people?”

“Right,” I said.

“Not for headlines or to be the number one guy in Topaz City?”

“I said you were right.”

“All right, Len. Now then. Did this Lieutenant Blockbuster stop the criminals from escaping.”

I snorted. “Yeah. He stopped them.”

“But after you got them out of the liquor store, and protected Mister Miller?”

“Yes.”

“Well then. It sounds like you both did good work tonight. You should be proud of that – not angry because you’re not the only man in Topaz City with a secret identity.”

I nodded.

“Good. I think maybe you should get some rest. Go out again tomorrow night. See how things change.”

“All right,” I answered, and let him pat me on the back and head out of the apartment. Mom got me some hot cocoa, and I went to bed.

And got to thinking. ‘Not the only man in Topaz City with a secret identity,’ Sam had said. He was right. This Lieutenant had to be from around here – otherwise, why come here? I mean, I might have been kind of irrational about having heroic competition, but I didn’t honestly believe he’d shown up in Topaz City just to ruin my solo career. He was probably young – just from his attitude, he had to be close to my age, in one direction or another. In his twenties at the latest.

It was time to track down any V. Esterhauses.

The next few weeks I really busted myself. I wanted to prove I was every bit as capable as Lieutenant Blockbuster. From sundown to the deep morning I roared around the city on my motorcycle, stopping crimes and muggings and what have you.

And, to be honest, Lieutenant Blockbuster was out and about too. He stopped a bank robbery, and got the cover of the Topaz City Courier. I was in that edition too – I was on page fourteen, under “Public Crime.” I’d stopped a holdup of a restaurant.

Yes that stuck in my craw. Yes it made me mad. Look, I’m not sitting here claiming I was rational or justified. In my day, a guy with a marksman’s eye and a good right cross could dent crime. Now? The city’s hero flew. How do you compete with that?

In James Buchanan High’s graduating class of 1943, there were two V. Esterhauses. A twin brother and sister. Vincent Esterhaus’s picture wasn’t in the yearbook – it had the service stars of an enlisted soldier. His sister Victoria was pretty, with curly black hair.

Lieutenant Blockbuster first went active in Europe in 1943. I had a match. I checked the phone books and learned that Vincent Esterhaus lived on North Conroy. I took a ride up there one day, in my dad’s Coupe. I just sort of rode around, not really knowing what I was looking for.

And then I saw them. Brother and sister in the Coffee Pot Cafe. Two years hadn’t changed Victoria Esterhaus very much. And Vincent? He was her twin, all right. Not identical, obviously, but very similar. The same delicate features. The same curly hair. He looked like a Zoot Suiter except he was wearing a grey-blue business suit. He looked very young cocky businessmanish.

I got out of the car and went into the cafe. I… hm… what did I have? Seems like it was pretty good coffee, and I had a egg sandwich and a piece of toast. Not sure, but it sounds like what I’d have.

I watched them out of the corner of my eye, careful not to get caught looking. They were laughing a lot, and not paying much attention to what was around them.

He was too good looking, I thought at last. Not rugged enough. I could deck him and he’d thump with the best of them. He wouldn’t be so handsome then, not with a shiner on his eye and his coat all torn.

And you could tell, in the way he fought, too. He wore that metal carapace, and flew out of reach of everyone and everything. Of course, he didn’t have to mix it up, hand to hand. Nuh-uh. He could stay all nice and clean, floating above it all. He was probably scared someone’d hurt him if he got too close.

Heh… this tape won’t get me reelected, I don’t think. But it’s how I felt. You wanted honesty, right? Not lies to cover things up?

I left there feeling pretty good. I’d found him out! I knew his dirty little secret – that under the metal and fire he was some momma’s boy in a suit. No matter how much the crowd ooooed and ahhhhed at him, I knew he wasn’t anyone special.

And maybe that would have been enough for me. Maybe I could have gone on my petty little way, feeling like the real hero of Topaz City, if it weren’t for the message waiting for me at Sam’s when I got in. It was from the Mayor, via good old Sergeant Thomas at the Eighth Precinct. The Mayor wanted to see me.

I suited up, and took a ride to City Hall. The letter got me in the front door. I walked the four flights of stairs to his office – it didn’t seem right that I’d take the elevator. Maybe Blockbuster flew, but I walked and I was proud.

The secretary stood as I came in, and smiled. She looked at me like I was some kind of movie star. Well, to her maybe I was. I introduced myself with a smile.

“Oh, I know,” she said. “I’ve read about you for what seems like my whole life! It’s an honor!” I smiled and nodded, and took a good look. Yeah, eighteen or so, so she’d have been twelve or thirteen when I’d started. That was about right.

And it puffed my chest up a little more, I admit it. She let me into the Mayor’s office.

Mayor Leamer grinned broadly when he saw me, walking around his desk to shake my hand. “Lad, this is truly an honor,” he said, pumping my hand firmly and smiling a politician’s smile.

“Thank you, Sir,” I said, shaking his hand back. “I’m just proud to serve.”

“I know you are, I know you are. Proud service indeed, too. Years of it. You should have a medal, do you know that? A medal!”

“Thank you, Sir. I don’t need a medal. I’m just proud-”

“Yes yes, I know. Commendable attitude, Son. And I’m sure you’ve been wondering why we called you out here, hm?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well… have you heard about our new Financial Exchange?”

“I’ve seen the construction of it, Sir. It looks like it’s going to be pretty impressive.”

“Oh, it is, it is… they’re already calling it ‘little Wall Street,’ you know. Heh. Little Wall Street. That means something, Son.”

I kind of bit my lip, wondering if he’d ever get to the point. My time was better spent on the streets, not listening to him ramble. Still, he did call me in. A threat to the new Financial Exchange?

“…anyway, we’re going to be opening our doors on the twenty-third of this month. Which is where you come in.”

I frowned. “There’s been a problem?” I asked. “Some kind of threat? Some attack-”

“What? Oh, no no. There’s been-”

“Then you just want someone there – someone to guard the door, just in case?”

The Mayor looked perplexed. “No, Son… nothing like that! What do you expect? Racketeers storming in with machine guns? What would the point be? No, it seemed to me that nothing would liven the affair up nearly as much as getting Topaz City’s own Mystery Man to officially open the Topaz City Financial Exchange’s doors! Think of it! The All American Lad – veteran of Franklyn Delano Roosevelt’s own Liberty Brigade, cutting the ribbon on the brightest star in Topaz City’s financial crown!”

I stared at Mayor Leamer, stunned. “You… want me… for a ribbon cutting ceremony?”

Mayor Leamer blinked. “Er, yes,” he said. “Doesn’t that-”

“There are crimes going on out there right now,” I snapped. “Honest to Christ crimes where people are scared and in trouble, and you want me to open a glorified bank for the newspapers to take pictures of it?”

“You watch your language, young man,” Leamer snapped. “If you’re going to be like that, I don’t think you’re exactly who we want representing our city anyhow!”

I shook my head, spinning on my heel and storming for the door. “The next time you call me, there better be a damned good reason,” I snapped.

“Look – you’re upset,” the Mayor said, switching faces. I think it hit him that he didn’t want the All-American Lad to be seen storming angrily out of his office. Not good for the old re-election campaign. “I’m sorry. I should have mentioned why I wanted to see you. But honestly, Lad – what’s wrong with it? We’ll pay you, of course, and you’ll be seen lending your own personal seal-”

“Why not call Lieutenant Blockbuster,” I snapped, spinning to face him again. “This sounds like the sort of thing he’d eat up with a spoon.”

The Mayor blinked again, truly startled. “Don’t you think the Lieutenant has better things he could be doing?” he asked. “Honestly, Lad – have some perspective.”

Needless to say, Mayor Leamer lost my vote. I was furious. I hit my cycle and took to the street – not to patrol. Right then the Nazis could have attacked Topaz City and I’d probably drive right by them. I just wanted to ride… get out. Get away. I buzzed up Pine, heading for the suburbs….

And I heard it. I heard him. Over me, rumbling like a rocket. I looked up and he was pacing me. My first thought was to draw and shoot – Leamer’d called him after me!

But of course I didn’t. I wasn’t insane.

The jerk waved. I brought the cycle up short, waiting. See what he wanted, then get the Hell away from Mister “Doesn’t He Have Better Things To Do?”

“Hi,” he called down over his loudspeaker. “Is this a good time to have that talk?”

“What do we have to talk about,” I shouted back, not bothering to control my anger. Little wimp in a big shell…

That seemed to take him aback, though it was hard to tell. “I… just thought it would be a good idea,” he called down. “If this isn’t-”

“No, let’s get it over with,” I snapped. “The water tower on Ridgemont, overlooking the City.”

“Right!” he called back, and with a plume of red-orange fire, he sped into the dark night. I spun out and accelerated to the North, not bothering to watch him go.

He got there first, of course. He was looming next to the Water Tower. Eight feet of reinforced metal with arms sticking out. I pulled up, killed the engine, and got off next to him, checking my whip, lasso and guns.

“Hi,” he said.

“What is it,” I answered. “I’ve had a lot of my time wasted tonight-”

“Oh,” he said. “Are you on a case? I didn’t think I was interrupting anything – can I help? Or can we do this-”

I took a deep breath. “I’m not on a case,” I said. “Is this a social call?”

“Well… yes, it is,” he said. “You’ve done so much good in Topaz City, I just always wanted to meet you, and since we’re in the same business now, it would make sense we knew each other, right?”

“Oh, right,” I said. “I’m sure you’re worried about needing backup.”

He paused again. “Excuse me?” he asked finally.

“Look, you’ve made it abundantly clear that this is your city now. I happen to disagree. But you don’t have to dress it all up with a pep talk. No one can hear us here-”

“What have I ever done to you?“ he asked. “Look, I wanted to meet you – you did so much to guard Topaz City during the war-”

“That’s right,” I snapped. “I did. I was here, trying my damndest. Where were you, huh?”

“Where was I?” Blockbuster answered, getting angry for the first time. “I was in Europe! I was on the front lines of the war! I was blowing up tank columns and getting shot at! What is wrong with you? I volunteered because of you and Six Gun Sam!”

“Oh, well thank you,” I snapped back. “Look, if you want to come into Topaz City, I can’t-”

“I live here,” Blockbuster answered. “I’ve lived here my entire life. Who are you to sneer at me because I want to protect it, huh?”

“Tough talk for a man in a ton of metal, looking down on us.”

Blockbuster stared at me. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to fight stupid. I thought the object was to stop crime, not ‘fight fair.’ You don’t want to be my friend? Fine. I don’t need you, ‘All-American Lad.’ Just keep out of my way, and I’ll keep out of yours.”

“Fine.” I threw a leg over my cycle-

“All units, all units,” the Police Band radio crackled up. “Robbery in progress at First National Bank. All… oh my… it’s… one man. He smashed through the wall of the vault! He-”

I blinked, and started the bike. I roared down the hill – it was a hard ride to the First National, but I could make it in five minutes if traffic was clear.

There was an explosion behind me, and Lieutenant Blockbuster roared towards the city, taking the direct route.

Fine. Let him get there first. What did I care? I could go places he couldn’t. Sometimes, you couldn’t blow something up and win. Especially if there was one man down there, and he had enough explosives with him to smash through a wall into a vault. Fire bursts wouldn’t scare him.

I pushed it to the edge, coming close to going over three or four times, banking to either side. Adrenalin flooded me. I was racing, I realized. During the war, Sam and I would race against the Germans, or against sympathizers, or against criminals… now I was racing Blockbuster. I had to get there. I had to.

I swung into the city, and hit the sirens. People dove out of my way. I leaned forward on the bike, the wind snapping through my hair and tearing my eyes. I had to help. I had to stop-

I swung onto Fourteenth in time to see an automobile thrown through the air and smash into a cop’s car. I skidded to the side and threw myself off the bike, running. What was going on – what was Blockbuster doing? What-

And then I saw. It wasn’t Lieutenant Blockbuster. He was sweeping around, firing down and blowing chunks of macadam out of Fourteenth street. Straight at a man in a dockworker’s outfit. The man had to be seven and a half feet tall. The police were shooting at him.

He was ignoring it. He was ignoring their guns.

I froze, for just a second, and I knew what he was. Just like the costumed Nazis and nuts Sam and I put away… we had our opposite numbers.

This one was Blockbuster’s. A villain, with super powers as tough as the Lieutenant’s.

He grabbed a streetlight and ripped it up, swinging overhand so fast I could hear the whoosh of it all the way across the street. He slammed it into Blockbuster’s armor shell, spinning him end over end, and making him lose control of his flight, slamming him into the ground, hard.

And I ran forward, guns out and throwing myself over a police car. “Geez Lad,” someone shouted. “Get back! He ain’t human!!”

I fired four fast ones, bouncing the bullets off and distracting the thing. He spun, facing me. “You wanna fight Browbeat?” he howled. “I’ll crush you!”

I took another shot at him, and threw myself to one side, lasso out. He jumped – one jump took him forty feet right at me, but he missed and I got back and threw my lasso and got him! “Give it up,” I shouted.

He spun around – so fast – and snapped the rope of my lasso like it was paper. He grabbed the rope and yanked, throwing me forward and burning through my gloves in a second, giving me rope burns right through the leather. I stumbled at his feet, and tried to push up – he was over me with a rock-

An explosion of fire and light blasted him back away from me. “Get away from him,” Blockbuster shouted, having gotten to his feet. His P.A. was out, and his voice sounded shrill with the shriek over his blast.

Browbeat threw himself up and straight at Blockbuster. Blockbuster fired, but Browbeat kept pushing forward and swung.

The fist slammed into the center of Blockbuster’s shell like a cannonball, the impact’s noise smashing through the streets like a thunderclap. Blockbuster was thrown back onto the pitted scars of the street, the remains of his shattered armor shell crumpling around him. Maybe dead – how to tell….

Browbeat started for Blockbuster slowly, and I realized the thug was going for the death blow.

I hated Blockbuster. I really did. I don’t know why I ran forward. But I did. “Hey,” I shouted, grabbing my six-shooters with raw hands.

Browbeat turned. “Get outta here,” he snarled. “I ain’t got time for you!”

“Make time for this!” I howled, and fired eight more times. I was an expert marksman taking a risk. And I hit the mark – eight shots, one after another, right… in… his… god… damn… eyes!

That rocked him. He staggered back, and I ran past and dove, grabbing Blockbuster out of the remnants of his armor shell and running with him. I knew I couldn’t stop Browbeat. I could only save Blockbuster’s life.

I ran with everything I had into an alleyway, skidding to a stop behind garbage cans. I crouched there, panting and setting Blockbuster down behind me. I had a whip and two empty six-shooters. Browbeat could bounce bullets and throw cars. I couldn’t stop him.

But he wasn’t following. I heard shouting – I must have rattled him, because he was jumping off.

I turned to Lieutenant Blockbuster – I had to figure out if he was still alive. He was the only one with the sheer power-

And I stared at the body lying next to me. At the pressure-suited chest that slowly, painfully rose and fell with breath.

Lieutenant Blockbuster wasn’t Vincent Esterhaus at all.

It was Victoria.

So, we move on to the last of the Home Front stories instead — but not the last Home Front post.

This was actually the only serial in The Home Front. And it was also the only one of these that was written entirely for Mythic Heroes, with no Superguy antecedent. It had been tentatively picked up by Greg, though the magazine had suspended production even before it was scheduled, if I recall correctly.

It’s not as downbeat as the last one. And it has actual story and conflict. So, you know. We’ll see what you think.

And now, I pass out and, with luck, die. But before I do, I thought you might like to see one other thing. See, to get the serial sold to Greg, I had to send him a pitch document. And this is the first paragraph from that pitch document. And it may be as good a statement about The Home Front that I could make.

At the end of any play is a cast party. Generally, the set is struck by the cast and crew working together, symbolically returning the stage to a neutral state. There is a liberal amount of alcohol consumed. Someone has ill-advised sex with someone else. Two good friends will get into a loud fight that might involve actually hitting each other. A videotape of the performance will be watched, to the great embarrassment of all who are involved.

And, inevitably, there is the last person at the party. He listens to the music by himself. He seizes upon any passer-by, regardless of any connection to the play, and talks incessantly about it. He walks the stage by himself, listening to the hollow echo of the naked boards, staring out into the auditorium, and swearing he can still see the audience, accept their accolades, hear their laughter and feel their tears. He goes through “post-theatric depression” for weeks, the connection he feels to the play refusing to die along with that play. And, if he’s not involved with the next production, he inevitably resents it and compares it unfavorably to “his” play, regardless of its merits.

The year is 1946. The age of the Mystery Man — for better or worse — is over. The Age of the Super Hero has begun.

This is the story of the last person at the party.

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

Do I just talk into this? Really? That’s really neat.

Okay… you want to talk about Nineteen Forty-Six, right? After the Liberty Brigade broke up and we all went back home? To our cities?

Great… no, that’s no problem. I can talk about that. This isn’t about me though, is it? I mean, I didn’t do anything that incredible in the war. I mean, if this is going to be a money-maker, you need some of the big names on the marquee, don’t you? The Quick, or Excalibur, or Spycracker or–

No, I really don’t have a problem talking about it. I know it wasn’t the most heroic event to come out of double you-double you double eye, but it’s who I was and who I am, so why not talk about it, huh?

All right — the quick and easy backstory. I first started as–

What? My name? Oh, for the tape. Gotcha. Sorry. I suppose you have to be careful, especially given my political career. You don’t want to get sued later, right? Anyway, my name’s still Len Davis, originally from Fall Creek, West Virginia, but my parents and I moved to Topaz City when I was about two years old. Dad was a radio engineer for R.K.O., and they opened up that huge broadcast center–

But you don’t really care about that, do you? I mean, what does it have to do with fighting spies or busting up gangs or anything? Nothing. And you can look up the Smithsonian archives and get a better description of most of those, right? The quick and dirty was this — I was the All American Lad. I worked with Six Gun Sam — Sam Bochioni, who was a greengrocer and the son of Sicilian immigrants. He had a real Western Thing going, wore a kerchief over his face and trickshot his way through crime and spies and stuff like that.

Here’s the thing, though. His cousin Alberto was still in Sicily, which means he was still Italian, which means he was in the Axis. He was kind of Six Gun Sam’s opposite number — an assassin.

Sam lived his career terrified that his family connection to the Black Stroke would be revealed. Alberto apparently felt the same way about Sam, according to letters and stuff we found later. Neither one told on the other, though, and Sam died without kids in ’52, so it’s all pretty safe to say now. Sam had a heart attack — that’s why he wasn’t in the army. He had a bum ticker. Strange, isn’t it? A man with a bad heart being a Mystery Man?

Anyway, in ’41 I was fourteen. Sam needed a real All-American with him, in case the connection to the Black Stroke came out — something to insulate him. Pretty naive, huh? Well, that was Sam. And me? I was a football hero and an ace student — math specialist. So what the heck, huh? Sam saw me every day because I lived in an apartment six floors over his store on East Forty-Fifth.

It was a good thing he did. Sam was all heart and western accent, but frankly he couldn’t figure out a clue if it shot back at him — which it sometimes did. Heck, the Autorepeating Rifle Robot of Doctor Hans Konrad would have aced Sam if I hadn’t shot the power cord leading to the wall. Sam just kept shooting it, “looking for a weak point.” But I always worked to make Sam think he’d figured out the mysteries and stopped the crimes. Why not? Sam deserved it, and I was having a ton of fun.

Anyway, in ’44 President Roosevelt called the Mystery Men to the capital, and formed us into the Liberty Brigade. That was a blast! Travelling around the country on train, hanging out with other people in the cape and mask business… it was like being in a Carnival, and what seventeen year old deep down doesn’t want to join the circus? And the crowd loved us. I mean, maybe we weren’t super human, like the Quick or Lieutenant Blockbuster or any of them, but we were heroes and we stood for something. Besides, there were some pretty girl ‘Mystery Men’ too, and the crowd loved that. Not that I ever did much more with the girls than neck one night with Solitaire — she was a lot older, but she loved to play the field, especially when her kid partner left the tour halfway through it.

But anyway, that’s still not what you’re here to listen to, is it?

In 1945, I volunteered and was made a Second Lieutenant in the army and kept right where I was in the Liberty Brigade. For right then, I was popular — a golden boy blond in a patriotic costume — wait a sec. I still have the costume. And the guns. Let me go get them.

–we are. I’ve put on some weight, so it doesn’t really fit any more, but I keep it anyway. Hey, it’s more fun than a varsity jacket. The wife understands, but she would, wouldn’t she?

Yeah, those are ivory handled. Yeah, I guess it is a little like General Patton — not intentional, but there you go. Sam gave ‘em to me. Which is where the story you want to hear starts, I think.

Anyway. I volunteered at 18, was commissioned, kept in the tour, and then the war ended and I was discharged. The only soldier in the history of warfare that shot at more of the enemy as a civilian than as an Army man. So Sam and I climbed on a train after long tearful goodbyes and a dinner and things, and rode back home.

Sam stared out the window the whole way, of course. He cried a few times, he was so happy. You’d think he stopped Hitler himself. And heck, why not? No one tried harder than he did.

“Gonna be nice to be home, huh?” I asked him.

“Shore is, pardner,” he said with a laugh. He never talked like that out of uniform before then — it was part of his disguise.

“Careful,” I said, “that voice got kind of famous in the War Bond movies.”

Sam shrugged. “Let someone recognize me,” he said with a grin. “Why not? The Germans have surrendered. The Japanese have surrendered. The war is over and there won’t be another one. So why not be recognized?”

Won’t be another one, he said. I nodded and agreed with him, even though I knew better. Human beings like to fight. They believe in it. They believe in war. It’s why our peacetime military budget’s so overinflated. I could get some numbers for you–

No, I guess you’re not hear to talk politics. Sorry. Guess it’s hard to get out of the patter, at least in an election year. Heh heh — yeah. Anyway, back to the story.

“Sam, you still need a secret identity,” I said to him. “I mean, come on — you don’t think the racketeers’ll be just as happy to figure out what store to shoot up?”

Sam stared at me, and started laughing. “Racketeers? What — we’re back in the twenties, are we?”

“You know what I mean–”

“I don’t think I do, quite. Len, what do you expect to do when we get back to Topaz City?”

“What do you mean? I’m going to College at T.C.U. in the fall, I’m–”

“That’s not what I mean and I think you know that.” He leaned back. “Shoot straight, pardner, whut do yuh think about Six Gun Sam and the All-American Lad?”

I sort of blinked at Sam. “I… think it’s going to be a lot easier to keep the streets safe without Bunds and spy rings blowing things up.”

“Easier, yes… very easy indeed. Len, the war’s over. The soldiers get to go home now, and get married and have lots of kids.”

I guess I looked shocked then. “Sam… you can’t be saying we’re giving up now?”

“What giving up? We won. We beat them. We did it, Len. I’m so proud of you, too–”

“Sam, I’ve been a vigilante since I was fourteen years old. You’re not telling me my career’s over now. You can’t do that!”

Sam looked a little startled, and a little saddened. “Len… I’m not as young as you. When the Nazis were threatening our very way of life… well sure. We all had to pull together and kick them right back to the Bosch. But they’re done now. The war is over.”

I stared at Sam, and I turned and sat back in my seat. I felt… wounded. Like I’d taken a bullet right in my heart. Not be the All-American Lad? That wasn’t what I wanted!

We rode together in silence for a while, the American heartland whizzing past us. I was thinking about all of it — running the streets in the night, the time we actually had to grab police horses and lasso the Cold Street Gang while they fled with the gold from a Brinks delivery… trying to keep my girl Holly from figuring out just who I was… the whole nine yards. Over?

“Len?” Sam said finally.

“Yeah?”

“Why do you have to retire just because I do?”

I turned and looked at him, stunned. “What?”

“I mean it — oh sure, I won’t be there to bail you out any more — but you’re not fourteen any more, either. You’ve seen me all these years, how I fight, how I figure out mysteries and all of it. So why not strike out on your own? Lots of mystery men don’t have sidekicks, you know.”

So that’s when the All-American Lad went solo. It seemed awfully weird to think about — sure, Sam wasn’t half the crimefighter he thought he was, but he was always dependable. And besides, he bought the bullets. Fortunately, he agreed to keep me stocked up. In fact, he said that if I were going to be on my own, as an adult, I’d need a new costume — that’s the one I brought out. It’s a beaut, huh? Leather coat with the shoulder buttons, the pants are tough, like bush-pants. And the coat has all the armor of a bullet proof vest — here, hold it. Heavy, huh? It was load bearing though, so it didn’t bother me.

Homecoming was weird, in the meantime. Mom and Dad were thrilled, and proud — they showed off my Silver Star to every one — that kind of embarrassed me. I mean, sure, I thought I earned it. Heck, we took out dozens of fifth columnists. But I wasn’t in the Army at that point. I’d never even seen combat. Besides, the honors weren’t the point. But it made them happy. Holly had, in the meantime, gotten engaged to Brett Wallace — kind of a smarmy kid who didn’t bother volunteering — he figured when the draft took him, he’d go. And heck, if the war ended before then, that wasn’t his fault.

That hurt. Holly going with that coward, when I was fighting for our country. I didn’t go overseas, sure – but there’s a huge difference between volunteering and letting someone else volunteer.

Yeah, I know my voting record’s pretty anti-war. I didn’t say I liked war. I sure don’t like the one we’re getting sucked into now, though I’m hoping maybe we can talk our way out of it privately. One Korea’s enough. Would War Two was different — we were sneak attacked, and then Germany declared war on us. We had to do something.

Anyway, it was still strange. I was eighteen. I graduated high school on the road with the Liberty Brigade. My girl was marrying someone else. My friends were spreading out, getting jobs — some few like me were getting ready for college. But most of the people I was close to had gotten into better schools than Topaz City University and were moving away or had moved away. I hadn’t had much of a chance to apply to college.

So, I went away a high school kid and came back to a city that seemed completely different to me. Even the places we loved to hang out had been taken over by… well, children. You’re laughing, but it’s true. The underclassmen were coming into age, taking over the spaces that had been ours for all those years.

But, finally, my costume came in.

Dad knocked on my door the evening the package arrived, and I asked him to come in.

“Son,” he said, setting a cup of coffee on the end table. “Can I bend your ear a minute?”

“Sure, Dad,” I said. “Seven to two you’ve been talking to Sam.”

“No bet,” he laughed. “He says you’re just about ready to start your solo career.”

“Yeah. It’s going to be odd, but I don’t think there’ll be–”

“Oh, you’re going to do just fine, Len. We both know Sam wasn’t exactly the senior member of that team.”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t have done it at all without him.”

“I know, I know. No, I just… wanted to have a few words with you.”

“Sure.”

He put an arm around me while we sat there, and didn’t speak for a little while. After a bit, he struck a cigarette and smoked it. “I guess I want to be sure you’ve thought this all through, Len.”

“Thought… what through, Dad?”

“Well… Sam’s attitude is the War’s over… the fighting’s done. And now he’s moving on with his life. Are you sure this is the direction you want to move into in your life?”

“Dad… I know it sounds weird–”

“Yes, it does. It’s a rare sort who elects Vigilante Justice as a job, you know.”

That made me laugh. “But Dad, I’m still going to go to College. I’m still going to prepare for a career. It’s just….”

“Just what?”

I looked at the wall for a while. “I lost most of high school to fighting crime and fighting Nazis, Dad. It was the most significant part of my life during the most significant part of my life. And… I can’t get back my school, or my friends, or Holly… I can’t go to my Senior Prom half a year too late. I… can’t lose the All-American Lad too. I have to have something left. And… I do good work at it. It comes so naturally to me. And I’m proud to protect Topaz City.”

“Does Topaz City need protecting?” he asked quietly.

“The Golden Swashbuckler and the Sleuth started years before the war,” I answered. “And they do good there. I can do good here.”

“All right… I suppose a world that can have someone like the Quick or Phalanx can have the odd Mystery Man or two.” He grinned.

“How does Mom feel about this?”

“Proud. She always understood, Len. More than I did at first, strange as that sounds.”

I nodded.

“I think Sam wants to talk to you now,” Dad said. “He’s been waiting in the living room since before I came in here.” He grinned.

I reflected it. “Sure,” I said. “Let’s see him.”

Dad nodded, and crushed his cigarette in my ash tray before walking out. I got up, and paced a bit before Sam knocked on the open door.

He was wearing his hat and his guns which seemed strange. But, if you haven’t guessed, Sam was something of a strange man. I still miss him sometimes, when I need someone to talk to who I know won’t tell anyone my secrets.

“You’re not wearing it,” he said.

“Haven’t had a chance to change,” I replied. “Want me to–”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’d like to see how you look in it.”

I nodded and got the box and went into the bathroom. I took off my clothes and pulled the new costume on. I remember, weirdly, how it smelled. New leather, dyed. The pants felt a bit rough inside. They had that new clothes shape to them too, like they were related to cardboard. The boots fit, and were comfortable. The mask kept my hair exposed, but covered the back of my head and the lower half of my face. I had thin metal disks over my ears — didn’t block sound much, but they helped protect them. Besides, your ears are a key to who you are. Their shape could identify you.

I walked into my room, feeling the clop-clop of the boots on the wooden floor. Sam turned, and looked at me for a long moment. His eyes glistened.

“You’re all grown up,” he said quietly, shaking his head with a smile. “I didn’t really believe that until now.”

“Sam… I–”

“No, Lad. Just listen for a moment. You hear a call. You’ve told me that. If this is what you want… I’m proud to have been a part of it.”

He drew his pearl-handled pistols, and handed them over to me. “And you’re going to need some straight shooters on your side. Your .25′s were nice, and you were good with them… but….”

He started crying for real now, with pride. And I felt a lump too, taking the pistols with a kind of reverence. Six Gun Sam was never the brightest mystery man… but he was the best shot I’ve ever known.

He gave me the belt, and I took mine off. The holsters that fit a gun like mine wouldn’t fit his. He also gave me the speedloaders he’d built for them — six-guns had a built in disadvantage in reloading.

I belted them on. I checked my gear. I made sure I had spare ammo. I checked the whip, and the lasso. I checked the small, compact camera the Minuteman gave me on tour.

I looked at Sam, and he gave me the thumbs up. I stepped into the hallway, and saw my parents in the living room, watching. I nodded to them, and I made my way to the window at the end of the hall. It was open to the sweet night air.

And then I was down the fire escape, and running into the night. The motorcycle I’d stashed earlier. It roared into life beneath me. The wind rushed through my hair, and I took to the streets, police band radio tuned.

As I swung down East Forty Fifth, there were shouts, and waves. Holly was one of them, and I saw something in her eyes for a half-second I knew Brett Wallace had never seen. Cars got out of my way. There was a catch in my throat as I rode into my city.

It was Mister Miller’s liquor store, and he was cashing out. There were six of them, with shotguns. They’d forgotten that Topaz City had a protector. They’d learn better.

“You know,” I said from the door, “temperance is a virtue.”

They spun, and I fast-drew and shot three shotguns out of their hands. “Against the wall,” I snapped, and they moved.

“You didn’t count on that, did you,” Mister Miller cackled, slapping his knees. “You didn’t count on the All-American Lad, did you? You didn’t — look out Lad!”

I threw myself down, spinning and firing even as the shotgun blast ripped over me and into the far wall, shattering bourbon bottles. There was a seventh. I’d missed of course — you shoot to distract them, but you weren’t trying to kill them. I put a bullet in the shotgun’s stock but took a club to the back — must have been a broom. I rolled, kicking, and got to my feet first, though my guns were down. They rushed me.

I was a football player. I could take a crunch. Besides, I was well armored. I took a shot to the chin that hurt , though. I punched one square, and kicked a second.

That was enough — they started to run. I snapped the whip out and cracked it, getting one around the ankles halfway out the door. He cracked his chin on the sidewalk and was out. I hopped over him, scooping up my nearer gun and running after them as they went for their car.

I grabbed the lasso — shoot the tires out and tie them up, I figured.

But I didn’t get the chance. I was beaten to that punch.

It was a whistling sound… and it looked like a burning comet that seared into the top of that car and exploded with the force of a rocket, throwing the gang back even at the distance they were at. They ducked and covered, yelling. In the air, we could hear a dull roar.

As one, we looked up.

He wore an olive drab solid metal piece over his shoulders and torso, with a pressure suit under it and armor pieces on joints and knees. The helmet covered his whole face. Burning fire rippled from his back, holding him high in the air as he panned over us.

“Give it up now, boys,” he said in a voice that was wired to some sort of megaphone.

“Who… are you?” Mister Miller asked in awe from his door.

He turned in the air and gave Mister Miller a thumbs up. “Lieutenant Blockbuster!” he called down. “Just here to do my duty, sir!”

There were others on the street… and the cheering started, and shouts of joy. Lieutenant Blockbuster turned his attention back to the crooks, and fired a ripple explosion from his hand, which impacted with a burst five feet from one who’d been trying to inch away.

I just stood there, staring at this… thing in the Topaz City sky. He slowly turned, and looked at me through thick lenses. He somehow managed to look amused, and gave me one of those thumb’s ups as well. “We ought to talk,” he said, and roared into the night.

“Did you see that,” Mister Miller asked, grabbing my arm. “One’a those Super types like in the war, right in our city!”

“I saw it,” I answered. “I saw it.”

Can we take a break? I’m kind of tired. Thanks.

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.