There are there to make it easy for folks who A) use such things and B) like one of the stories to spread the word. If they wish. No harm and no foul if people don’t have an interest in doing so.

Thanks as always!

Edit: Hrm. Though I can’t say I like that it throws the buttons at the bottom of RSS feeds on those (rare) posts where I don’t have a cut between the introduction and the story. It looks kind of ugly in the feed.

Ah well. I can cope. I have Coping/5.

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

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

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

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

Yeah.

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

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

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

I hope you like “Legacies of the Past.”

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

Legacies of the Past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t say I like it much either.”

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

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

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

“Gail Donaldson,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Beautiful?”

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

“So you’re passive? That–”

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

“Your curiosity?”

“And my propensity for distress.”

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My father snorted. “Only, Paul?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that he stayed there.

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

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

“Yeah,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What… how did he get here?”

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

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

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

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

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

For as long as possible, anyhow.

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

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

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

“Why is he here, Father?”

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

“Father?”

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

“Do you want me to change?”

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

“What?”

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

I didn’t say anything.

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

“Are they looking for him?”

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

I nodded.

“Did he wake up? Ever?”

“I don’t think so.”

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

“How are you feeling?”

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

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

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

I shook my head.

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

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

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

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

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

“I know what he says.”

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

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

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

“How’re you feeling?” he asked.

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

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

“Can you wake him up?”

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

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

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

“Is he gonna die anyway?” Paul asked.

“Yes.”

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

“I’ll get the–”

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

“He’s… pretty fragile.”

“Move him carefully.”

“Upstairs?” I asked.

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

I nodded. “I’m coming too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

McCallister grunted.

“How you feeling, huh?”

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

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

McCallister didn’t answer.

“Lieutenant?”

“In trouble,” he said.

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

McCallister stared at my father.

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

McCallister didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

McCallister didn’t answer this one.

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

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

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

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

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

“Wh… what do you–”

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

“If… if it was you?”

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

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

“Yeah?”

“…the same.”

There was a long pause in the room.

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

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

“Oh come–”

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

McCallister swallowed. “Th-throat… dry…”

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

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

Silently I stepped back.

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

Morton chuckled. “Testimony, the man says.”

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

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

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

McCallister didn’t answer.

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

McCallister worked his lips.

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

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

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

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

McCallister didn’t react. He just watched.

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

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

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

“You smoked them,” McCallister whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

McCallister didn’t answer.

“God damn it–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Father’s jaw set. “The helicopter?”

“It’s gone. And so are the boats.”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“Then why–”

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

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

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

“Just business, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Boss.”

“Paul — is my suit laid out?”

“Yeah, but–”

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

“Boss, get into the chamber!”

Father turned to Paul. “Go!”

Paul looked at him for a long moment.

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

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

“Father…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What — how long will–”

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

“But — you–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so he was the Lieutenant.

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds pretty gruesome to me.”

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

“Do you think it redeemed him?”

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

That stopped me short. “It wasn’t?”

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

“Then what made his death so… beautiful?”

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

“So what happened then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jayce.”

“Excuse me?”

“Call me Jayce.”

“I think not.”

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

“I’ve liquidated my father’s assets.”

He looked at me. “Meaning?”

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

He frowned. “What about the illegitimate ones?”

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

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

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

“He killed your father!”

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

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

“Like what?”

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

“That’s correct.”

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Miss Delgato–”

“Please. Call me Victoria.”

“But you won’t call me Jayce?”

“Correct.”

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

“These aren’t honorable men, Victoria.”

“No, they’re not. But you are.”

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

“Really?”

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

“Mm. I’m hardly surprised.”

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

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

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

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

“Wait… these are yours?”

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

“What would your father think?”

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

“Why do you say that?”

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

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

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

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

I blinked again. “I’m confused.”

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

“But not fight for him?”

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

“Until they capture you.”

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

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

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

And maybe she does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

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

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

This is a holiday special, though the holiday in question is somewhat vague. I don’t think we can call it Christmas, or Yule, or even Agnostica. I think it’s just ‘winter,’ since this is after all a myth about winter. This is a special, in part, because it steps away from the normal mission of these our myths of the modern world.

This is, in short, a recognizable myth to a lot of you. A myth of the ancient world. But I like to think that the retelling makes it a bit modern in other ways. And if it’s recognizable, I also like to think there are ways that it isn’t.

It concerns the changing of the seasons. Which sometimes means the changing of autumn to winter. And sometimes means changes of another kind entirely. It’s called Prosperina.

I hope you like it.

And yes, this should mean we’re back. Thank you for your patience, all.

Prosperina
A Mythology of the Modern World Holiday Special
by
Eric A. Burns

Her name was Prosperina. Or perhaps it was Proserpina. Or Persephone. Or Libera or Kore. It all depends on who you speak to, really. The important thing is she was young, and she was vibrant, and her parents were loaded, like a lot of pretty young things in a lot of cities.

And like a lot of them, she wasn’t terribly happy with what was after all a pretty privilaged life.

Oh, she knew she didn’t have it that badly, really. She knew she wasn’t hungry, or poor. She had a roof over her head. Sometimes she admitted to herself that she had a lot more than almost everyone. She was a goddess, after all, and that’s not nothing.

But it’s hard, sometimes. Especially when your mother is Life itself.

Her father was the King of the Gods, at least at that time. In more modern times, my understanding is they’ve experimented with various systems. But back then they liked Kings, and he was actually pretty good at it. But he was a womanizer at best and he didn’t really do birth control so he had a lot of kids running around. Prosperina was just one of them, and one he didn’t have to worry about. Not with her mother.

Call her mother Demeter, or Ceres, or Kabeiriia if you will. It doesn’t matter, really. What’s important is she was Life itself. Growth and abundance. The good harvest — or the bad. Without her, there was no living, no warmth, no green things, no nothing. And that’s a pretty good racket to be in, if you think about it. She was rich, and powerful, and used to getting her way. Prosperina was her eldest daughter, and she knew exactly what Prosperina was going to do with her life. What job she would have, what part of the family business she’d help take care of, all of it, really.

It was a small part, really. Prosperina’s mother didn’t want to overburden her eldest (and, everyone knew, favorite) child, and there were so many important details to look after as it was. Really, it was easier for her mother to just take care of them herself. Which is the problem with dynastic businesses where everyone involved is immortal. You never actually die off or retire, which means the next generation never takes over.

As a side note, why did Paradise Island even need a ‘Princess’ Diana, since Hippolyta was never going to die or even get bored with the whole thing anyway? Also, where did their textiles industry come from? But I digress.

This state of affairs went on for several decades. Which is also important to bear in mind. At the time this whole situation went down? Prosperina was somewhere around retirement age in a human. But when you’re immortal your age is less a function of time and more a function of definition. And right then, Prosperina was defined by ‘daughter,’ not by anything she did. So she remained a young woman.

Oh, there was that fling with Adonis, but that led to issues, and Prosperina’s mother put her foot down. And that meant no more dating, period.

So yeah, Propserina was as prosperious and fortunate as her name implied. Still, she wasn’t exactly happy about it all, and it’s hard to fault her for that. So she took to wandering the back alleys and streets of the city, finding the right bars to hang out in. The clubs her Mom wouldn’t be caught dead in. It is also safe to say she wrote self-absorbed poetry for a while, and used her share of black eyeliner. Not during the planting season, obviously. There was too much to do then — she was involved in the planting, even if everything she did was superfluous. But during the growth of the summer or the harvest of autumn, she was at loose ends. And then of course planting came again.

On this night, it was raining in the city, which made her eyeliner run just a touch. It was midsummer, which meant she had nothing to do. The word had gotten around about the whole Adonis thing, so Prosperina couldn’t even find a one night stand to save her immortal life.

It was a hole in the wall, in a bad part of the city, though there was really no danger to Prosperina. Everybody had to eat, or so they said, and everyone knew her mother was insistant. And besides, she was a goddess, and not that many people were stupid. Still, she kept to herself and tried to keep people from figuring out who she was. She went into the bar and she wandered to the back. She slipped into the end booth. Up on a stage that was little more than a stoop, a man in a white suit and hat plucked a banjo from behind sunglasses. He sang in a voice well acquainted with cigarettes. He sang of death and the blues, and Prosperina drank a Long Island Iced Tea.

Few people know the peninsula was named for the drink, not the other way around. But now you’re one of them, so feel good about that. But I digress.

She sipped her drink. The man on the stage crooned into the old mike. “I want to be seduced… let a woman talk to me suggestively… wanna know that she’d like me to be with her tomorrow morning — drinkin’ hot jasmine tea….”

“Story of all our lives, huh?”

Prosperina glanced over at the table closest to her. A man was sitting there, a tall beer and a whiskey set in front of him. He was handsome, if you liked that kind of thing. His hair was somewhat unruly. And his coat was black.

“I wouldn’t know.” Prosperina said, and took out a cigarette. She held it to her lips, and the man leaned over to light it. She breathed in deeply, and exhaled with a long breath.

“Cloves.” The man wrinkled his nose. “Smoke enough of those, you’ll sound like Leon up there. What’s your story, anyway?”

Prosperina shrugged. “I’ll let you know when I’m told the next chapter.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, your mother can be quite a bitch.”

Prosperina arched an eyebrow. “Not many people get away with calling her that.”

He shrugged. “She’s nothing to me, friend.” He took the shot, then followed it with a long pull off the beer.

“Hard drinker,” Prosperina said, shifting to watch him.

He shrugged. “A beer and a bump. Nothing big — a poor man’s Boilermaker.”

She smirked. “In five minutes you’ll be calling it Texas Tea. So who are you, anyway?”

He half-smiled, nodding to the waitress, who nodded back and went to fetch him more liquor. “Dis Pater,” he said. “Or just Dispater. Friends call me Dis.”

Prosperina grinned. “Dis Pater? Rich Father? You sound like a pimp.”

Dis shrugged, grinning.

Prosperina leaned forward, propping herself on her arms. “You sit at the big boy’s table. Major sphere. The Dead, right?”

Dis chuckled. “Death. The Underworld. Wealth. I’m also a mean hand at debugging crufty source code.”

“Is that why you’re not worried about insulting my mother?”

He shrugged. “Nothing to me. The Underworld handles its own food.” He half-smiled. “That seems to appeal to you.”

Prosperina took a drag off the cigarette, breathing out the clove smoke. “It doesn’t break my heart.”

Dis’s smile grew smug. “Why don’t you join me, and let me buy you a drink?”

Prosperina leaned back. “Why don’t you join me, and let me buy you one?”

Dis chuckled. “I wouldn’t say no.”

In the background, the singer growled. “I might demur politely, falter slightly, if she starts to fondle my knee… but I’m relatively certain I’d compromise if I know me… I want to be seduced, I want a woman to talk to me suggestively — I want to hear her say she’ll be with me tomorrow morning, drinking hot jasmine tea.”

Dis spent a lot of his time in the Underworld, of course, but when he was up in the city, he and Prosperina spent a lot of time drinking in a lot of dives. They got to second base a few times, especially in dance clubs, but even if Dispater had nothing to fear from Prosperina’s mother, there was no good reason to tempt fate. He’d heard the rumors about the Adonis situation too, after all.

“So what the Hell are we doing?” he asked finally, leaning back on a rooftop looking at the night sky.

“Smokin’ a joint and staring,” Prosperina said. “If you want to try something, I don’t think there’d be a thing over it, tonight.”

“No, what are we doing?” Dis rolled onto his side, looking at her. “I mean, is this a thing, or am I just the guy you vent to because no one else would understand?”

Prosperina breathed out blue smoke. “Don’t be like that,” she said. “There’s nothing to be done.”

“You know, other people have relatlonships.”

“Other people aren’t me.”

“So that’s it? You’re done? She won, and you got nothing to try?”

Prosperina turned to look at him. “Where do I go, huh? What do I do? Where do I stop being her daughter? How do I get out from underneath that?”

Dis looked at her. “That depends. How much do you like me?”

“You clean up pretty well.”

“Not good enough. Do you love me?”

There was a pause.

“‘Rinny?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I love you.”

“Enough to marry me?”

She stared. “What?”

“Do you love me enough to marry me?” Dis laid back, looking up at the sky. “I’m serious here.”

“Yes,” she said, softly.

“Then you have an option.”

“Marry you? Trade being a daughter to being a wife?”

Dis snorted. “That’s what you call being Queen of the Underworld?” He looked at her. “Beyond how I feel about you, I need help. I need something more than I can give. Things have gotten too complex. I need something — someone who I can trust and who has the authority to whip things into shape.”

“What sort of things?”

“Infrastructure. Health and human services. Not to mention food distribution.”

“The dead eat?”

“The dead eat their food, yeah.”

She frowned, taking another hit. “So… you’re saying you’d make me a partner?”

“Yeah.”

“And I’d have work? Real work? Important work.”

“Yeah.”

She looked at a star, high in the sky. Bright enough to cut through the smog. “Do you love me?”

There was another pause.

“Yeah,” he said. “I love you.”

“Okay then.” She half-smiled. “But getting out will be a problem. We go to the transit authority, people are going to want to know why I’m leaving town. Someone will call one of my mother’s cronies…..”

“Yeah. And I don’t think you’ll fit in a diplomatic pouch.”

She snorted. “Not without a serious diet.”

“It could be a nasty scene.”

“And that’ll be the end.” She looked back up.

“You’re an adult,” he said. “More than an adult. You’re a goddess. You make your own choices, Prosperina.”

“I know. But she’s too powerful. And she won’t listen.”

He nodded. “Hrm. Can you leave the city on your own?”

“It’s summer. I could go on a day outing with some of the nymphs.”

“To Leucippe Meadow? By the IHOP on Route Sixteen?”

Prosperina snickered. “Will we get pancakes?”

“Nope. I’ll pick you up there.”

“And then carry me off to a booty call?”

“No.”

She blinked. “No?”

“I’ll bring you down to the Underworld, but we’ll take our time to court. You can get to work, get yourself established — decide if you like me beyond rebelling. And if you do….”

“Then we’ll see.”

“Yeah. We’ll see.”

The nymphs were happy to go with her to Leucippe Meadow. They were moderately vapid creatures — some nymphs have depth, but these didn’t aspire to that. “–so cute,” one was saying. “I swear, he gives me a look and I just melt.”

“Prossey, tell Aglaope she’s insane,” Peisinoe said. “That guy’s just gutter trash and she should know it.”

Prosperina shrugged. “Maybe, but if gutter trash makes her happy, who’s to say she’s wrong?”

“We are,” Thelxiepeia giggled, and the others — even Aglaope — giggled with her.

“Yeah,” Prosperina said. “Of course.” She was wearing a white dress belted with a flowered belt, walking and waiting.

“Guys,” Peisinoe said, frowning. “Do you hear something?”

“Like a rumble? Or an Earthquake?” Thelxiepeia was frowning. “Guys… maybe we should get back. It may rain or–”

“I’m not going back,” Prosperina said, softly.

“Oh Jesus, I do not want to get rained on,” Agalaope said. “Come on, let’s get the car and–”

“I’m not going back,” Prosperina said, more loudly.

There was a moment’s shock.

“Wait… you mean… you… you don’t care if you get rained on?” Peisinoe said, softly. Trying to talk herself into it.

“I mean I’m not going back. If you guys want to leave, feel free.”

“Wait. Wait wait wait. You’re running away?” Thelxiepeia said. “Oh God Prossey! You can’t do that! I mean… I mean…” she looked around, fanning the air with her hands in panic.

“What do we tell your mother?” Agalaope said, the panic contagious.

“I don’t care what you tell her,” Prosperina said. “Tell her anything. It doesn’t matter any more.”

“That’s not fair!” Thelxiepeia shouted. “She’s going to blame us! It’s easy for you — no matter what you do she’ll just haul you back home, but she might give us wings or beaks or–”

“Guys!” Peisinoe shouted. “That noise is getting really loud!”

And with a crash and a roar, a gigantic car burst from the ground and thundered down State Route Sixteen. It was a black Cadillac Eldorado with the license plate ETNA on the front. Sleek and finned, like from the fifties, it rumbled with pure black horsepower as it thundered down the road towards the girls.

The nymphs shrieked and ran back, cowering at the edges.

But Prosperina just unbuckled her belt, and tossed it aside. It landed in a nearby pond. She skinned out of the loose dress. Underneath, she wore a white tank top and cutoff jeans. She scooped up her backpack and waited.

The Caddy pulled alongside her. Dis was sitting in the driver’s seat.

“Goin’ my way?” he asked, half-smiling.

“God, I hope so,” Prosperina said, and moved around to the other side of the car. She climed in, tossing the backpack into the back seat, and the car thundered off.

“You sure we can’t pick up where we left off,” she asked as the car plunged into a ditch and then down into a cleft in the very Earth.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I want to too, but we need to let this grow.”

Prosperina snorted. “You have no idea how sick I am of growing things.”

“Then you’re headed in the right direction.”

For six hours, they drove deep into the Earth. They stopped for McDonald’s on the way, of course, but it was Cleftway Service Plaza McDonald’s, so it was way expensive. But finally the car pulled out into a huge cavern, and Prosperina’s eyes went wide.

The city was magnificent. Carved in all directions from the stone itself, with stone spires and building reaching up sometimes thousands of feet, not just close to the cavern roof but sometimes forming a pillar with it. Electric cars whizzed by and the shades of the dead moved from place to place, and a soft white light seemed to suffuse the area. There were plants down here too. Black things, with pale berries, and trees that reached up with thin branches and dark leaves. It was eerie, and it was beautiful.

The most beautiful place that Prosperina had ever seen.

It is safe to say, in these times long past, that Prosperina loved Dis Pater, the Wealthy Father, who also goes by other names. But her first love was the great city of the Underworld. The moment the goddess laid eyes on it, she knew this was the place that was meant to be her home. The place where she would make her mark.

The place where she would not be the daughter of the Fertile soil and bounteous harvest. The place where she would not even be the wife of the Lord. It was the place where she would be Prosperina, the Lady of the Underworld, who sat upon one of the twin basalt thrones and rendered wisdom and judgment in measure.

And next to her, Dis smiled slightly. He knew she was the right — the only choice. For his queen, for his wife, for his partner.

The car climbed one of the ramps and took the side bridges, and drove high over the city, heading for the garage and a new life. Or afterlife, depending on how one looked at it.

“This is amazing,” she said, as she looked over her quarters. “How… how did you do all of this?”

“My basic labor pool is the dead. They have all the time in the world and plenty of reason to want something to do.” Dis smiled a bit more. “It is an equitable relationship.”

“I guess so.” She reached for a glossy, deep red apple. “This is just–”

“Don’t.”

Prosperina blinked, looking at Dis. “Huh?”

Dis walked over, scooping the apple up. “You can’t eat the food of the dead,” he said. “Especially the fruit of the dead. It doesn’t fuel life. It fuels death.”

Prosperina cocked her head. “What does that mean?”

“If a living mortal were to eat any of this food — even the tiniest bit — it would destroy him. Kill him instantly. Render even his shade weak for years.” He held the apple cupped in his hand. “For a goddess, it is taking in the substance of Death, of the Underworld into yourself. Part of you would die — even as a Goddess. Every bite would infuse its death essence into you, until finally your divinity itself crumbled and you died. Even a single bite would tie you to the Underworld. Too much, and you could never leave, even if it didn’t kill you.” He looked at her. “There would be… other effects, as well.”

Prosperina arched an eyebrow. “So what do I eat?”

“We’re importing food. You’re not the only one down here who needs to eat the food of the living. We’ll keep you well stocked.” He smiled a bit, and took a bite of the apple. It seemed to snap as he bit.

“It seems like you can eat it,” she said, smiling a bit.

“I’m Death, remember? Food of the living, food of the dead? It’s all good. Sometimes, I like to sauté them together — let them fight it out.”

Prosperina giggled. “I’ll bet you do.”

Dis smirked, looking at her.

“What?”

“You giggled.”

“What?”

“You giggled. I think the City of the Underworld agrees with you.”

Prosperina grinned. “I think you’re right.”

“Settle in first, or get to work?”

“Let’s get to work.”

And so they did. Prosperina settled in with the staff, working most directly with a Chthonic deity name of Hecate who knew secrets ranging from ancient magics to how to convince the Food of the Living vending machine on the 433rd level to give up free Snickers bars. Prosperina also got to know the various shades and other spirits of the dead — to meet the damned and the blessed, and see where each lived and the rules that governed them both. She learned that the tunneling and shaping of the stone never ended — more people died each day, passing across the River Styx through the front gates, in what was then called Psychopomp Docks but which would have other names over the coming eons. She learned about public services and utilities, and how to be firm but fair to those teeming tenants of the world beyond the world.

But of course, this story is not just about Prosperina. After all, we have mentioned Prosperina’s mother often enough that you know she couldn’t be kept out of the story for long. You see, she figured out early on that her daughter was missing. What she could learn from Peisinoe, Aglaope, and Thelxiepeia just made her upset — they didn’t know who had ‘taken’ Prosperina, and they hadn’t tried to intercede. So, as they had worried, she did indeed transform them, remaking them into sirens, winged and beautiful with voices that lured, in hopes that the goddess’s daughter would be lured out — or her kidnapper, anyhow. Later, after the sirens were left to their own devices, they became a rather dangerous menace to navigation. Still later, they would become a moderately popular pop music act. You can figure out which one if you think about it. I’ll wait.

That’s right — them.

Anyhow. The investigation involved many divinities, and sooner or later they worked out where Prosperina might be.

However, during this time… well, all was not well in the land of the living.

Prosperina was in a meeting when it came to a head. “–outline the water reclamation system,” she was saying. “Why we need a sewer for the dead isn’t quite clear to me yet, but I’m willing to accept it. Dale, put together–”

There was a knock on the door frame. Prosperina looked up. “Yes?”

It was Hecate. “Sorry,” she said, a slightly feral smile on her face. “There is someone here to see you.”

“They can wait,” Prosperina said. “We’ve been working to get this ready.”

“He is from the King of the Gods,” she said, her smile not slipping. “And from your mother.”

Prosperina stared for a long moment. She then looked at the shades around the table. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said. “Someone get everyone coffee. None for me — your coffee would stunt my growth.”

The goddesses stepped into the receiving room. Dis Pater wore formal attire, as did the Messenger. “Lady Prosperina,” he said, bowing formally. “I bring the greetings of your father the King of the Gods, and of course your mother, the Lady of the Harvest.”

“I thank you, Master Logios,” Prosperina answered, for in this, the Messenger was acting as the master orator, not the thief or the lord of boundaries. “When you return, please convey my regards.”

“Ah,” Logios said, “but you misunderstand. This is a rescue mission, Lady Prosperina. I am here to save you from the man who stole you from the sunlight and your mother’s boon presence.” The clever lord’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Then you may convey to my mother and the King that I came here of my own free will,” she answered. “At the same time as you convey my regards.”

Logios laughed. “Very good. Very good!” He looked at Dis Pater. “Lord of Hades, you do find a way to make the most interesting enemies.”

“And the most interesting friends,” Dis Pater said, his fingers steepled. “But come, Dolios. Let us dine before you return with your news.”

“It will not be received well,” the messenger said. “They have made it very clear and very public that the pure and kind, warm and loving daughter of our Lady Harvester has been stolen away. There is no room in that for a daughter who wants to stay where she is.”

“That is their problem and yours,” Prosperina said. “I’m happy here.”

“I’m sure you are, Lady,” Logios said. “But the people above aren’t happy. Your mother has withheld her beneficence. Absent it, the fields grow barren. The air is cold. Ice falls, and ice crystals blanket the fields in white powder. Nothing is growing up there, Prosperina. And eventually, all of mankind shall starve.”

“Then someone needs to force my mother to grow up,” Prosperina said. “This is where I live now. I won’t go back to be her favorite pet.”

Logios half-smiled. “As you say, Lady. I will convey your message. I should expect a response, were I you.” He looked at Dis Pater. “Old friend, surely you will see the need.”

“Not terribly,” Dis said, his own slight smile on his face. “Our world has all the food and warmth it needs, quite without the Lady Harvester. I’m sure the world above is an unhappy place right now, but all that means is we’ll have to step up construction efforts to accommodate all the deaths. In the end, you might be put out of a job but I won’t.”

“And were it just I out of a job, then perhaps that would be the end of it,” the messanger said, his smile growing ever so slightly. “But though your kingdom is your domain, old friend, you are not alone in this world. You too have responsibilities. You too must be accountable, and come to reckon.”

“Well then,” Dis said. “I guess we’ll see what response you have for us, won’t we?”

“So you say,” Logios said. “So you say.”

“You’ll have a meal before we go?”

“I’m afraid not. This is an issue that is at least somewhat pressing, and I need to beat the major cleftway traffic. The Styx/Lethe Bridgeway is a bitch if you get caught in rush.”

“We’re working on it.”

“I’m sure you are. Lord. Lady.” He bowed, and then was gone, as swift and silent as a thought not spoken.

The two looked at where the messanger of the gods had stood.

“Well,” Dis said softly.

“How do you think this will play out?” Prosperina asked.

“That depends. If your mother is willing to destroy the planet out of grief–”

Prosperina snorted. “Try spite. Or a denial or reality.”

Dis shrugged. “Like I said. If she’s willing to destroy all of humanity, then we’re going to have everyone on our asses.”

“The other gods?”

“The gods, the spirits, the nymphs, the personifications. Everyone.” Dis looked at her. “There are… logistical difficulties in fighting a war against the entire massed force of creation.”

“Would we win?”

Dis’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Unquestionably. But as the messenger so dutifully reminded me, I do have responsibilities.”

“Yeah.” Prosperina looked down. “We all do.”

It didn’t take long for a response to come. Dis Pater was summoned to a meeting of the full assembly, the high table of the Gods. Prosperina didn’t pretend that was a good sign. But before he left, for the first time since they had descended into the underworld, she kissed him. And she watched him leave, driving his Eldorado. It made a statement, or so Prosperina was told.

She was sitting in the dining hall when the messanger returned. He was flanked by Hecate, who seemed unusually somber.

“Master Logios,” Prosperina said, softly.

“I bring the greetings of your father the King of the Gods, your mother the Lady of the Harvest…. and the assembled Lords of Olympic Creation, Kore Maiden of the Planting,” Logios said in response.

“Does that include the Lord of the Underworld?”

“He is in the assembly, Lady. And it is the assembled forces and the will of the King I bear now. And it is a will that may not be appealed, nor denied.”

Prosperina nodded, rising. She walked over to the tables where the food was laid out. It was buffet style. On one table there was the food of the living. Meats, cheeses, breads, vegetables and fruits — not to mention Aeacus’s underworld-famous three alarm chili. On another, there were the dark fruits and foods of the dead. Glossy, shimmering with secrets and the quiet places. Blackened meats, dark, rich breads and broths, roots and tubers, the glistening, hauntingly beautiful fruits of the underworld — and not to mention, Aeacus’s underworld-famous four alarm chili.

Aeacus always claimed, for the record, that the dark meats of the dead made vastly better chili, and besides shades were willing to have way hotter habaneros in their food.

Prosperina paused at the food of the living. “Would you like something, Lord?” she asked. “It’s really quite exquisite.”

“The King of the Gods has decreed that the world and humanity is more important than the desires of the Lord of the Underworld,” Logios said.

“Then why does he not order my mother to restore fertility to the world?” Prosperina replied.

“He has. She won’t. And he has no means to force her.”

“But he can force Dis Pater to give me up?”

“No.” The messenger looked somber. “In the end, he can only decree. And it becomes a question of who blinks first. Of who sees the broader picture more than their own desires.” Logios picked up a slice of melon from the table of the living, and took a small bite. “This really is good,” he said.

“Dis Pater has dominion over the Underworld,” Prosperina said. “No one can take that from him.”

“No one can, and no one has,” Hecate said, smoothly. “But consider, my Lady. To the King was given the Sky. To the Lord of the Seas the depths and waters. To our Master the Underworld and all that lies within. But the King was granted dominion over the whole, specifically so he could adjudicate in disputes of this nature. If our Master were to challenge — to refuse to accede… it would not simply be this dispute that would be broken. It would be the covenant. The peace. Eventually, that leads to war between the Gods themselves.”

“And to the end of humanity, and in the end that is too high a price to pay for your wishes or happiness,” Logios said, not unkindly. “We all have our duties.”

“So. In the end my mother gets what she wants because she will willingly destroy the entire planet if she doesn’t, and somehow that becomes Dis Pater’s responsibility instead of her’s. Is that what you’re saying.”

“That is indeed what I am saying,” the messenger said. “Sometimes, we have to compromise.”

“We do. She doesn’t, apparently.”

“Apparently.”

Prosperina sighed. “So,” she half-whispered. “You’re here to take me back.”

“I am, Lady.”

Prosperina turned. One of the accents of the table of the dead were asphodel flowers — a bloom and herb that the dead prized greatly. There were rumors that Aeacus simmered his meat in the herb when making his chili. The vehemence of his denials seemed to confirm those rumors.

“Lady?” Hecate asked.

“Dolios,” Prosperina said, smoothly, now using the epithet of the schemer and planner, the thief — not Logios the messenger, nor even Diaktoros the courier of the Gods. “The core of all this trouble and all this pain is my mother, yes?”

“Yes, Lady?” the thief answered. The timbre of his voice had changed. He knew that Prosperina had a plot, and though it might cause the end of humanity itself, the swift thief of the Gods did so love a good plot.

“And because she is stubborn, and because everyone else can compromise, she doesn’t have to compromise. Yes?”

“Oh yes, my Lady.”

“That’s what I thought.” Prosperina looked at the bloom… and then let her eyes play over the fruit and food of the dead. “I think….”

“Lady?” Hecate asked. She sounded… anticipatory. The ancient power didn’t know what was happening, but if the thief loved a good plot, Hecate just loved when authority’s plans got screwed over.

“I think it is time my mother learn what it’s like to face a situation she can’t out-stubborn.” Prosperina’s voice was soft. She was glad Dis Pater was away. If he were not, the god would certainly protest, and he could be so reasonable — even while being so contrary in other ways — that she might even have listened.

The two other deities said nothing. Prosperina looked over the fruit, before smiling and reaching her hand out. A glossy, magenta/black pomegranate, still in the skin, sat plump and ready, heavy in her hand as she lifted it. Perfect.

“Lady…” Dolios’s voice trailed off. He understood. It was, in the end, a scheme.

“I love pomegranate’s flavor, don’t you?” Prosperina said, her voice still soft as she worked open the peel and husk. Her hands were delicate but strong, as befit a planter. She did not even burst any of the seeds.

“Yes, Lady,” Hecate said in a hush, as the sweet seeds, the tiny fruits of the dead within the peel were revealed.

Prosperina looked at them — the normally dark purple fruit rich and almost black. This was food to sustain death, not life. There was no mistaking it.

She did not hesitate. She plucked a single seed, and slowly slipped it between her lips. She bit down, and felt the skin of the fruit burst, the juice’s rich dark flavor spreading over her tongue, the seed crunching on her teeth. She swallowed, her eyes closed, and she felt it flow into her, and become a part of her… felt that hint of death, of the end, of destruction and dust that no god ever need fear willingly spread, touching each of her cells. She shivered as her nature and the new element warred, and inevitably colluded.

She took a second… and then a third… the others were not the seminal experience of the first, but they deepened and strengthened this new bond. And she knew then, as she had the third spread through her, and her bones and blood became chill, that if she had twelve seeds — just twelve seeds of this one pomegranate — that would be enough. She would be given all into death, and her divinity would fail, and she would be nothing but a shade, of no use to Dis Pater, and the world would die at her mother’s hand.

Very well. That gave her a limit.

In the end, she chose six. They were heady and potent, and she felt them working on her insides, their nature flowing through her veins and changing the air in her lungs and seeping into her spine, her bones, her brain. She closed her eyes even as they clouded, and when she reopened them, six seeds now a part of her, she saw the world slightly differently. She looked at her hands, and saw that her skin had become more pale — not wan, but almost like she had become harder. Like marble. The marble of a tombstone or memorial, or a statue raised to remember.

“I’m cold,” she said, in a voice filled with whispers. “Fetch me some robes.”

“Yes, Lady,” Hecate said, and Prosperina could hear adoration in her assistant’s voice. In this moment, Hecate would be her friend forevermore, and it is said that devotion lasts to this very day, in this very modern world.

The robes were comfortable and warm. And wearing them, Prosperina’s transformation seemed complete. She had been lovely before. She was beautiful now. Regal. And her eyes glittered, reflecting things only she could see.

“I am ready, Diaktoros,” she said to the messenger. “Let’s go. I don’t want to get stuck in midtown.”

And the messenger led her to the Acura he’d parked in one of the upper garages, and the two drove up, into the light. And Prosperina smiled as she looked at her city — her beloved, beloved city — because she knew that she would be back.

“–has happened to her!” Mother’s voice was shrill, and she slammed her hand on an end table as she shouted.

The surgeon of the Gods was a good looking man, with a warm smile and demeanor that made him something of a playboy. It was hardly his only job — he was a musician on the side and also had something to do with the sun not going out. It’s complicated. But right at the moment he was there as a doctor, and he wore the white coat to prove it. “She ate some of the food of the dead,” he said, smoothly. “It’s a part of her nature now.”

“So she’s half dead?” Mother demanded.

“No. She’s not any dead,” the doctor said, soothingly. “But her nature has changed. She is now balanced between the upper and under worlds, perfectly. In order to survive, she will need to spend equal time in both places. Otherwise, she will weaken and she will die.”

“Fix it!”

“I can’t.”

“That wasn’t a request!”

“And that wasn’t a refusal,” the doctor said. “I’m not saying I won’t heal her. I’m saying I can’t heal her. Her nature has changed. There’s no cure. There’s nothing to be done for it.”

The King of the Gods looked at the two, then walked over to Prosperina. Dis Pater stood nearby. He wore a slight smile, though Prosperina had seen pain in his eyes when the Lord of Hades had realized what she had done. Well, as much as she loved Dis, she hadn’t done this for him. “Hello, daughter,” he said, quietly.

“Hello, father,” she answered. Her voice was rich. Cultured. Maturity was in her bearing now. “You haven’t called me daughter for a long time.”

He chuckled. “Well, you know. When your children number into three digits–”

“Three digits,” his wife snorted. She was not a fan of his freewheeling ways. “Try four.”

“I understand, father,” Prosperina said. She smiled a small smile. “You’re not happy with me.”

“It doesn’t matter if I am or if I’m not. Why?”

“Because–”

“Why? Why?” Mother’s storm had been turned towards the pair now. “I’ll tell you why! It was him!” She stabbed a finger at Dis Pater. “He couldn’t get what he wanted, so he poisoned her!”

“It wasn’t poison, mother,” Prosperina said, with a slight smile. “It is just… a different kind of nourishment.”

“Besides. You know I’m innocent,” Dis Pater said. He seemed… amused. Almost distant. “I was up here, with you.”

“You planned it! You…” she whirled, a finger stabbing at the messenger. “And you! Did you see her do this?”

“Yes, Lady,” the messenger said. He was enjoying this. “I and the Lady Hecate were on hand when your daughter chose–”

“You tricked her,” Mother hissed. “Do you hear me! You tricked her! This monster kidnaps her — rapes her–”

“Mother, stop this. We haven’t been intimate. We won’t until we go back. After the wedding.”

“The what?”

“Oh yes,” Prosperina said, rising. “He courted me. I accepted. We are to be wed. And if you keep this up I won’t invite you.”

“This is unacceptable! This is all unacceptable! If it is not resolved, then there shall be no break, no relief, no crops or food or life for–”

“Oh shut up,” the King snapped. “I’m sick of this childishness.”

Mother was shocked into silence.

“You demanded we find her. We found her. You demanded she be returned. She’s been returned. We’ve done everything you asked. Now you’re demanding what — that we undo time? That we change what is to something else? Get it through your thick head — there is no going back from this. And if you withhold your blessings from the world now, I swear by the River Styx and by the blade I slew my father with you will come to a reckoning for every life lost! Do you hear me?”

Mother stared at him. “He–” she started.

“Dis Pater complied with your wishes. He is not culpable now.” The King turned to the doctor. “What does this mean?”

“The Lady Prosperina must spend half her time in the Underworld, from this point forward. She shall spend half of each year in that darkness, and half in the light. Otherwise, she cannot endure.”

“Perhaps I shall alternate weeks,” Prosperina said. “That should keep everyone happy, I should think. It will give me a chance to get my work done–”

“No,” Mother snapped. “I swore an oath you all heard. Every minute my daughter was in the Underworld would be a minute my blessing was withdrawn from the Earth. I could not break that oath now if I wanted to! I will not break that oath now! She has been abused and I will see justice!”

“She has been abused?” Dis Pater asked. “Or you have? It’s hard to be thwarted, isn’t it?”

“You think you’re so clever,” the goddess snapped. “I will spread the world. I will tell all who can hear what has been done. This crime will echo through the ages — this kidnap, this rape of my daughter shall become a part of the enduring legacy of the ages! And the trick — the hideous trick you and this Hecate and this thief have done–”

“Fine, mother,” Prosperina said, rising smoothly. Her robes added dignity to her. Her movements were graceful. And as she approached her mother, all in the room could see she hadn’t just changed in nature. Where she had seemed girlish, even after decades, she was now a woman. All the more beautiful. And as strong as her mother, and able to look at her on eye level.

“Prossey,” Mother half-whispered.

“If you are going to curse the Earth every time I’m away, then clearly we must plan for it. I will spend half the year in the Underworld. There is no choice about that, and the sooner you accept that the less embarrassing this will be for everyone.” She looked her mother in the eye. “I will leave after the Harvest. So all of humanity must learn to prepare — to plant more in the spring, tend better in the summer, and then harvest well, because as I leave your curse will take the fields and plants. The trees will sleep, their leaves shriveling and falling. The land will go barren, and ice and snow will fall. And then in the spring, not long before the planting you have always insisted I help with, I will return and so too can your blessings return. And I shall remain until the harvest comes once more. Will that satisfy you? Or must the world die and you be outcast before you accept that sometimes you don’t get what you want?”

Her mother looked at her daughter — at the woman before her. “You are my daughter,” she whispered.

“Yes. But I am also the Queen of the Underworld, given equal rank to the man who will be my husband, and I will brook no more disrespect.”

Mother’s chin raised up. “I will tell everyone what has happened.”

“Tell them whatever you like, Mother. It won’t matter in the Underworld.”

She looked her eldest daughter in the eye. And finally, for the first time in Prosperina’s memory — indeed, for the first time in any of their memories — she looked down, and turned away. “Fine,” she said. “Half the year above, half the year below. The Harvest shall become autumn in the wake of your passing, and then winter will descend. And spring will only return when you do.”

Prosperina nodded. “Very good. Now. I am back, so I expect spring and the planting can begin. Yes?”

Mother looked back. “My blessing is restored to the world,” she said, sadly. “For this year, anyhow. But it will fade as you do.” She snorted. “I should have let you have Adonis.”

Prosperina smiled. “I’m happy enough that you didn’t. I believe we have taken up enough of these good peoples’ time. Dis Pater, may I see you out?”

“Of course, my dear.” And he took Prosperina’s robed arm, and they stepped out of the room.

“We’re getting married?” Dis asked, as they went out of earshot.

“Of course,” Prosperina said, half-smiling.

“Shouldn’t we, you know, have had a proposal or something?”

“We did.” She nodded towards a building they had gotten high on the roof of, what seemed a lifetime before. “You asked me if I loved you enough to marry you. I said yes. I asked if you loved me. You said yes. Now I’m calling in that debt.”

“Semantically, that wasn’t a contract. Just a question.”

“Semantically, your people like me more than they like you. Do you really want to piss me off?”

“No.” And they kissed.

And this is where the story ends, more or less. As she threatened, the Lady Harvester spread the tale far and wide — the tale of a Lord of the Underworld who kidnapped and raped her pure daughter, carrying her down into the underworld. The story of how during that time, her daughter, the Kore, the Maiden, refused all food and drink until the Gods forced her return, but the canny and lustful Lord of Death tricked her — with the help, some say, of Hermes, and others say of Hecate — into eating some seeds of a pomegranate. Now, her daughter was the Queen of the Underworld, and half her life was spent in darkness, but the Lady Harvester grieved so during those times that the world itself became cold and barren, until her daughter was once more returned to the light.

That may seem unfair. But these things aren’t always fair, and as we have said before, everyone must compromise. Neither Prosperina nor Dis Pater overly suffered by the popular version of the story. When heroes attempted to ‘free’ Prosperina, she was more than happy to trick them and punish them for their hubris.

And yes, Prosperina was forced back up into the overworld every six months, but during those times she found herself content. The planting was no big deal — it never was, since her Mother had given her the duty as make-work. And she could continue to do her work for the Underworld even in the sunlight, working through couriers and dispatches. Dis Pater visited often, and the rest of the time Prosperina was accorded the respect of a Queen of the Underworld, an equal to her husband and partner. She went robed at all times now, for she was often cold, but her beauty was only magnified by her position and her maturity.

Over the centuries, she and her mother reconciled, of course. And eventually her mother grew content with her son in law as well. The curse remains, of course. As the Harvester herself said, such curses do not end just because we want them to.

But none of this changes the excitement — the hint of girlishness still existing — that Prosperina feels when the harvest draws to a close for another year. For she knows that after six long months of exile, she gets to return to her beloved city, to look at its beauty, to see the shades who have come to adore her, to sit upon her basalt throne, twin to her husband’s, and to once again know she is where she most wants to be.

So when the autumn comes and the air becomes crisp, and we sip cider and watch for the first snows… take a moment and consider Prosperina. As we get the coldest and most brutal parts of the winter, know that Prosperina is at her happiest, and know that she will give up her contentment come the spring so that we all might be fed for another year. And as I write this, having seen the first winter storm of the year hit my town, I raise my mug of something warm and feel joy for the woman who has gone home, and I invite you to do the same.

Oh, if you want to know why the Southern Hemisphere’s winter comes during our Summer? That’s simple. It’s the Coriolis effect. Everyone knows that. Hush now. Daddy needs his medicine.

I apologize for the inconvenience, and I thank those who e-mailed me to make sure all was well. You guys are aces and I hope you collectively win the lottery.

Beyond that, I’m going to try to put electronic word to paper today. We’ll see.

Thank you for your patience.

Gary, for those of you who don’t know the name, is perhaps the best of the old Superguy writers. His series were well done, with the appropriate blend of humor and pathos. And he managed to actually finish them. He finished Rad. He finished CalForce. He finished Radian and Shadebeam.

We all hated Gary.

Well, fourteen months ago, out of nowhere, Gary posted a new episode of Rad to Superguy. It was… well, all the years later that it’s actually been. Rad, a hero of the eighties — since that’s when Gary wrote Rad — returned to Earth to find things were different. He was older. Mighty Guy and Meltdown had had a kid.

At the time, I was tempted to do the same with my own series… though unlike Gary, I hadn’t finished my own series, Adjusted League Unimpeachable.

(It’s worth noting, at the time I wrote ALU, there hadn’t been any “Justice League” comic or cartoon that ended in ‘Unlimited.’ I don’t know if that ruins the already lame joke in the name, or if it actually makes it suck less. Either way, it hardly matters at this point.)

Now, I have a good writing life now. I have superhero stuff I can do. If I ever really, really have the urge to revisit the old Superguy stuff, I could post it in Mythic Heroes, right? I have Justice Wing beyond that. And plenty of non superhero things I really need to be writing.

And then, for the first time in fourteen months, Gary posted another Rad episode to Superguy.

God damn Gary Olson.

So now I had to write a Superguy post. Which I’ve done. And that ate into my time for writing something for today, so guess what you get?

This is a first episode post, so it’s possible you’ll be able to follow along. It’s also possible none of this will make any sense to you. That’s okay too.

Just understand. Superguy is, at its heart, a satire. As is this. A satire of superheroes, and of popular culture. And in this case, of a video game.

I’ll try to get a ‘notes’ comment in, though I drive to Ottawa tomorrow, so maybe not.

Regardless, please enjoy.

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

PROLOGUE

June 19, 2000

It was a good dinner, all told. A good dinner that became a good party that went on all night. Old friends had visited. Dignitaries had sent their regards, and Kent gave a speech that knocked down the Prudential building. In the wee hours of the morning Trudy could already see Intercontinental Salvage putting it back up.

Dianna stepped up behind her. “Kind of crazy to think about, isn’t it?”

“Sorta, Dianetics.”

“I think you’ve used that one before.”

“After all this time? Me repeating a nickname’s the least of my troubles.” Trudy looked at the woman — one of her oldest friends. “Are you absolutely sure you’re doing the right thing?”

Dianna chuckled. “I’m sure. A chance to see the universe? To use the Power where it was meant to be used?”

“Seems to me by definition it was ‘meant’ to be used wherever you used it.”

Dianna shrugged. “Yeah, I’m sure. Without the gang around, I don’t think I want to be hanging out here. This way, three of us will pal around.”

“Yeah, but you’ll have to take orders from Mike. I mean, Jesus.”

Dianna half-smiled. “I got used to taking orders from you, didn’t I?”

“Well, sure. But I’m awesome.” Trudy looked back out the window. “Am I crazy–”

“Yes.”

“Shut up. Whore. Anyway, am I crazy or are they already done rebuilding the Pru?”

“They’re done. They knew Kent was coming to the dinner, so they had Boston reclassified as an Omega-3 level reconstruction zone.”

“So, we’re a fatty acid?”

“Pretty much.”

Trudy nodded. “I believe it.” She looked back at the table. Kent had stepped to the side, talking with Healer. Doctor Tirkoff, Trudy reminded herself. With the Chick-Mouse being renamed and getting out of the superhero business, Elizabeth had decided it was time to stop using the codename. Kirby was squirming in her arms as it was, but was weirdly unafraid of the Megapolis Moron. With the other guests mingling, that left the primary team sitting at the head table. Mike. Jane. Dani. Mandy. Laura. Maria.

The Masked Bruce. The Dash. Dangerousgirl. Mastermind. Frigid Girl. Reflection. And Unorthodoxy and Exemplar, of course. The Adjusted League Unimpeachable. For another few minutes anyway.

“So, how are you and Jane… I mean, how are you three going to–”

“I have no idea,” Dianna said, smiling slightly. I’m just going to get used to wearing a skimpy lame outfit and draping around one of Mike’s leg’s. Isn’t that what space opera heroines do?”

“Don’t look at me. I had enough trouble working out what super heroines were supposed to do.” Trudy smiled a bit. “We should join them. We’re coming up on the end.”

“Right.” Dianna paused. “Hey Trudy?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s the trash can lid?”

Trudy paused.

A hair under seven hours before, Unorthodoxy had been her office wrapping up the last bits of paperwork. Her last few minutes on the clock. Her last few minutes of leading what had once been seen as the most professional force for justice on the planet.

He had come in. She hadn’t seen him coming.

“You know why I’m here,” he’d said.

Wordlessly, she’d handed the trash can lid to him. And then he was gone, and she wasn’t Unorthodoxy any more. She was just Trudy.

And he was gone.

“Where it should be.”

“Enigma is overrated.”

“So am I.” She slid in her seat. “Hey, Action teens. What’s the plan?”

“We were supposed to have a plan?” Mike asked. “God damn it. No one said there was homework.”

“Says the man who hasn’t even packed yet,” Jane said with a grin. She was pretty well focused, which was unusual but still.

Mandy snorted. “You people have a plan. Me? I’m getting up at the same time tomorrow, taking a shower, heading to B Tower and going to work. Retirement’s going to look exactly the same as fighting crime.”

Dani rolled her eyes. “Rub it in, Harken. I had to get an apartment. Do you have any idea how hard it is to rig up a shower that will collect radioactives instead of washing them down the drain to poison the alligators?”

“I designed that shower, Dani. I think I know exactly how hard it is to rig up.”

“Oh, whatever.” She smirked.

“You’re going off and getting married,” Laura said. “I’ve got a service sector job. Mike, Dianna and Jane are flying off in a Xolchipalian ship. Mandy’s taking over the new Rogers Institute. Maria’s living an accidental heiress’s lifestyle.” Laura half-smiled. “No one’s said what you’re doing now, Trudy. Where do you from here.”

Trudy shrugged. “I dunno,” she said. She pointed. “That way.”

“Actually, you’re pointing towards the Atlantic Ocean,” Mandy said.

Trudy snorted. “So much for my sense of direction.” Or misdirection, she didn’t add.

Laura nodded. “Makes sense.” She looked around. “Anyone see my brother? Or Trans or Mem?”

“Not for a few,” Mike said. “I feel badly for Mem. He wanted to be in the A.L.U. so badly. He’s finally primed to graduate and there’s not going to be one any more.”

“He’ll land on his feet,” Trudy said. “It’s what he does.”

“Yeah,” Dianna said. She snickered. “Maybe he’ll end up teaching at the Acadely. Wouldn’t that be irony?”

“It won’t happen,” Maria said softly.

There was a ping. The all-call ping. Every person at the head table tensed –in the past, that ping meant the difference between life and death.

«Hey gang,» MIKE, the Xolchipalian artificial intelligence, said with his perfectly modulated, easygoing voice. «It’s time.»

“Right,” Trudy said. She took a deep breath. “Okay everyone. You know what to do.”

Mike nodded, taking his Xolchacomm off and setting it in the center of the table. “So long,” he murmured.

Jane took her Xolchacomm off. It seemed to appear next to Mike’s. “Thank you,” she said, simply.

Mandy took hers off, and put it next to Jane’s. It was the Xolchacomm Kid Solipsism had worn, once upon a time. “I’ll never forget,” she said softly.

Maria took her Xolchacomm off, putting it next to Mandy’s. “In Trashman’s name,” she said.

Dani took her Xolchacomm off, flicking it so it skidded next to Maria’s. “Dude,” she said. Everyone agreed.

Dianna took her Xolchacomm off, and gently put it down next to Dani’s. “You know, if you ever need us…” she trailed off. She realized she didn’t know who she was saying it to.

Laura took her Xolchacomm off, and dropped it next to Dani’s. “Unto the next generation,” she said.

Trudy paused. She thought about the day that Trashman gave her the emergency beacon. And then the later day, when Mike gave her the brand new Xolchacomm. They’d upgraded to the more powerful, more integrated communications system after Trudy had been kidnapped by the Mega Intelligence Bureau. In a way, the Xolchacomm had been a victory in her life.

She took it off, and set it down. “Good night, sleep tight, and pleasant dreeeeams to you,” she sang, softly.

MIKE’s voice echoed from all eight Xolchacomms, in a weird octophonic sound. «Thanks, guys. It’s been amazing.»

There were a series of pops, and the Xolchacomms deformed, the cases melting from the destruction charges within them, reducing the Xolchipalian technology that drove them into so much junk.

“That’s that,” Mandy said. “Final paychecks will be direct deposited, for those of you who care about Earth money.”

All eight paused, feeling that weird combination of uncomfortable, elated and depressed you get when the most important thing in your life has ended.

“Okay, I need another drink,” Dianna said. “None of us are role models any more. Who wants to get plowed?”

The party went on for a long time. There was word from Jenny and Joel, and all the heroes you’d expect to show up or send word did. There were tears of sadness and tears of joy, and at one point there was a cool dance number. No one attacked or threatened undying revenge.

And then Trudy slipped out of the room, and went away before anyone noticed. She didn’t do goodbyes. She got to where she’d cached her things, and took off the party dress. Instead she wore a tee shirt with a flannel over it and a worn pair of jeans. And she walked through the streets of Boston, pointed more or less East.

The sky was getting lighter when she reached the docks. She made her way to where the private boats were moored — far from the commercial shipping lanes or slips — and down to where she’d had the sloop tied off. She hadn’t told the others about this. She wanted just to fade away, see what happened next.

He was waiting on the dock, next to the boat. His face was scarred. His body clearly twisted even in the wheelchair.

Four times he had clearly died now. The last time by Trudy’s own hand. And yet there he was, wearing a trenchcoat and a small smile. And Trudy found herself smiling back.

They nodded to each other. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

Trudy cast off as he watched. She motored out into the bay, knowing he was watching as the sloop putted out.

Trashgirl was written across the boat’s aft. Boston, MA.

Once clear of the harbormaster’s domain, Trudy hoisted the sail and set the jenny. She killed the diesel and let the weird quiet take over. She pointed due East, where golden light was meeting her. A girl once known as Trudy Galloway, then Trudy Unorthodox, then Trudy Galloway once more… Unorthodox Girl, Unorthodox Lass, Unorthodoxy… a woman given command of one of the most powerful teams ever known on this world, a girl who’d known love and loss, pain and pride, the best of man and the worst, sailed straight down the throat of a new day, and didn’t look behind her as she went.

THE LEAGUE
Episode 1
Aftermath
by
Eric A. Burns
Who swears to Christ this is all Gary’s fault.

October, 2007

The Scions of the Phoot owned Boston’s North End, at least if you asked them. Whether it was the presence of all the Italian restaurants and pizzarias or just because they didn’t want to fight the roving Crew Sculler gangs along the Charles River wasn’t easy to say.

Still, the Scions of the Phoot used their ancient techniques and powerful bad pizza magic to terrorize their neighborhoods and bend the people to their will. Or that was the plan. Sadly for the gang, it never quite worked out that way.

“Shiny!” Hazard shouted, wheeling and firing an explosive charge in between three Scions. The explosion threw them every which way. “Heads up!”

“I see them,” Reflects said, coolly, kicking off a wall and going down to a three point stance. Where her hand and feet touched the ground a small trail of silver glistened, as bright as the mirror force over her skin and hair, and she slid towards the knot of gangers almost frictionlessly, bowling them over as she slid past as if she were the world’s prettiest bowling ball. “Where’s the ringleader?”

“HELP!”

Reflects kicked up into a forward roll, catching her feet and skidding to a stop as she restored friction to her feet. She looked up and across the street, where she saw the Scion in Lieutenant’s color’s hanging from a flagpole, fifty feet off the ground and clearly terrified.

“I guess Trans got him first, Shiny,” Hazard said, landing next to the mirrored maiden.

“She does that, sometimes.” Reflects said, grinning. “What now, Boomer?”

“Not sure. I think the rest cleared off.” Hazard pulled her L-Phone out. She got online, scrolling through the information Ops sent, scanning for trouble spots… “crap. Pawn shop fifteen blocks over just got hit. The Scions are going for broke today.”

There was a siren. “Hazard!” one of the shopkeepers shouted. “The cops are coming!”

“Thanks, Mister Bertelli!” Hazard shouted back. “You make sure you give them a statement!”

“Will do! God bless you! You and your whole League!”

Hazard grinned. “You too! But we–”

“Yes yes! Go! Go!”

Four police cars skidded to a stop nearby, and police swarmed out. “Hazard!” one of them shouted. “On the ground with your hands over your head!”

“Why do they always address you,” Reflects asked. “I’m standing right here.”

“I guess I stand out in a crowd better.”

“I’m polished silver.”

“And yet, you manage to be so unnoticeable. I’m jealous, really.”

“I mean it!” the officer said, gun drawn. “You know I don’t want to hurt either of you–”

“You hurt my feelings,” Reflects said, pouting. “You should feel bad!”

The police officer blinked. “I… uh–”

There was a ripple, and the sound of imploding air, and the two heroines vanished in a ripple of Cerenkov radiation.

The officer and his partner blinked. They both half-smiled as they stood up and holstered their weapons. “I guess they got away again,” the first officer said.

“Yeah. Damn shame, huh. Start arresting the Scions?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The other side of the transgates opened on a rooftop overlooking the pawn shop in question. Ordinal was sitting lotus, floating in the air, purple and blue light playing over her skin. “You two need to stop teasing the police,” she said. “They work awfully hard.”

“Sorry, Trans,” Reflects said. “Did Ops give you the lowdown?”

“Ops is offline. The call triggered an automated alert. I sense fourteen distinct energy sources inside, all with the distortion qualities of the Scions of the Phoot.”

“Fourteen? Where do they come up with all these gang members,” Hazard asked. “I swear. We arrest hundreds a week, and they never seem to run out.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to call attention to the logical fallacies,” Reflects said.

“Do you two want more than support?” Ordinal asked. “I’ve got Iceweaver and Parvenu engaging the Scullers on the Charles, and there’s rumors of the Ensemble massing in force in the Back Bay and Capacitor isn’t answering his L-Phone.”

“What else is new. Nah, get out of here. You need backup with the Ensemble?”

Ordinal snickered. “They’re a criminal marching band. I think I can probably take them.”

“Cool beans,” Reflects said. “What’s Incandescence doing?”

“Fighting Lickmi in the Somerville War Commercial District.”

“Wait, that sounds like more fun than fighting Scions. Can’t I go join her instead?”

“Screw you, Boomer,” Reflects said. “We have an assignment.”

“Awwww. Sparky gets all the fun.” Hazard grinned. “Before you motor, can we get a dramatic entrance?”

Ordinal smiled a bit. “Got one cued up and everything. You ready?”

Hazard grinned. “Like canned ham.”

“What does that even mean?” Reflects asked. But by then the gates were encompassing them.

* * * * * *

Elizabeth Tirkoff stepped off the elevator. She wore a blood red coat and skirt and cream blouse. Another year, another crop of students. Another series of crushes. One of the downsides of telepathy was knowing exactly when a fourteen year old fell in love with you. While her shields were impeccable, it was hard to screen out ‘Doctor T looks amazing‘ when it was thought right at her.

Though more and more, that was followed by ‘for a woman her age.’
“Afternoon, Liz,” Mandy said, stepping out of her office and moving into step with her.”

“Don’t call me Liz,” Elizabeth said, almost by rote. “Do I really need to be at this meeting?”

“You’re on the Foundation’s Board of Trustees. Yeah, you have to be there.”

“It’s just — the sixth grade is going on a field trip to the Museum of Science, and–”

“You can play with the giant Van der Graff generator another time.”

“They make lightning with it,” Elizabeth said, grinning. “It’s so cool.”

“Elizabeth, you’ve been to the Ottsamattawidu homeworld. You remade the universe itself once. You’re good friends with sentient machinery.”

“Yeah, but do any of those things shoot homemade lightning?”

“Half the planet Hottentot shoots homemade lightning!”

The Board of Trustees, largely made up of wealthy people and appropriate financial and community leaders, paused at this outburst as the Chair and one of the Senior Trustees was walking in.

“Yes, they do,” Andy Awesome said, smiling slightly. “But I’m sure we have other business at hand. Unless the Rogers Memorial Academy for Preternaturally Gifted Students has a new Hottentot student I’m not aware of.”

“We don’t tend to get Ottsamattawidu aliens,” Elizabeth said, walking over to Andy and kissing his cheeks. “You look wonderful, Andy. But then you always do.”

“I try to keep trim,” he said, awesomely modestly.

“Trim or fat, there’s too much to be done to waste time,” Mandy said, settling in her seat. “Plenty of it’s important, most of it’s boring, and the opening’s gonna thrill everyone.”

“Let me guess,” Nouveaux Skunk said, thumbing through the most recent prospectus. “The League.”

“Sadly so,” Mandy said, taking some sheets out. “There’s significant State, Local and even Federal pressure to get some kind of control over them.”

“Forgive me for asking the obvious,” Elizabeth said, “but what business is it of ours? They’re not the Adjusted League. There hasn’t been an Adjusted League for more than seven years.”

“Everyone assumes they’re backed by the Rogers Institute,” Professor Burns said. The professor looked amused. And rumpled. “They know that most of the League went to school at the Academy. Parvenu, Reflects and Incandescence were all in the Mob together, and they were affiliated with the A.L.U. Hazard and Iceweaver were in the A.L.U. The only two A.L.U. heroes still known to be active, I would add.”

“We don’t have positive confirmation on any of their identities,” Elizabeth said. “They seem like our associates–”

Mandy snorted. “Come on, Tirkoff. A woman who’s constantly on fire, a woman who looks like a silver statue, a drop dead gorgeous Spandex Babe double who explodes–”

“All that could be handwaved away,” Nouveaux Skunk said. “The problem is Trashman. When he’s sighted fighting alongside them.–”

Elizabeth frowned. “Trashman’s dead,” she said. “Everyone in this room knows that.”

“Good for people inside this room.” Mandy closed the portfolio. “It doesn’t matter. So long as people look at this ‘League’ and think ‘Adjusted League,’ it’s going to reflect on us. And that makes it our problem. They’re not sanctioned, and this is still a war zone.”

“The Lickmi invasion is four years old,” Andy said. “And it’s been confined to a couple of neighborhoods in this one city. And this city’s been largely sealed off anyway. I don’t think anyone still considers this a ‘war zone.’ There’s just a… continuing active negotiation with the Lickmi.”

“One involving shotguns, missiles and the occasional dark spell of containment,” Professor Burns said, smirking.

“These days, that’s just considered life in Boston,” Andy said, leaning back. “But given the rampant crime, the potential destruction… why aren’t we simply lending our official, tangible support to the League? After all, we still train superheroes here.”

“We train paranormals here,” Mandy said. “We don’t need a superhero school any more. We’re out of that line of work.” She leaned forward. “I’m not asking for your permission to deal with this knockoff League. I’m telling you we’re going to deal with it. If you don’t like it, find someone else to run this popsicle stand.”

Nouveau Skunk arched an eyebrow. “One would think you take all this personally, Miss Harken.”

“That’s because I do. I was a member of the Adjusted League Unimpeachable. No one else here can claim that. They’re screwing with the A.L.U.’s legacy and its place in history. And I’m going to stop it.”

“Okay, let’s calm down,” Andy said. “Of course we’ll approve any actions you feel are appropriate. Now, shall we get on to more mundane matters?”

Elizabeth was frowning as they left the meeting, a couple of hours later.

“You seem pensive, Elizabeth.”

“I’m just thinking about the League,” she said. “Thinking about where we’ve gone.” She shook her head. “I keep thinking back to CalForce. Everything we talked about in there

“CalForce?”

“We were somewhere between a party and anarchy. And we just assumed the world would be behind us. And we were right.”

“You don’t think the League’s like that?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Elizabeth said. “I think they are. I don’t think they’re worried about what the Rogers Institute does, or the police does, or the Feds do or say. They just assume that the people will back them.”

“Yup. Coffee?”

“Love some. I’m dying here.”

They walked for the executive break room on the same level. Just another change in a building once organized more for defense than even not for profit business. “You understand that the League’s right,” Mandy said as they walked.

“Meaning?”

“The people will back them. The people do back them.” Mandy looked at Elizabeth. “The city and the state say to arrest them, but the police don’t exactly bend over backwards to do it. And if they managed to do it, the city’s populace would have a fit.” Mandy held the door for Elizabeth. “There are too many factions in too many parts of the city. The Scullers here in Kenmore. The Scions of the Phoot in Central. The Ensemble in Beacon Hill. The Trudis in Jamaica Plain–”

“They don’t back ‘the League,’” Elizabeth said, somewhat annoyed. “They back the Adjusted League. They think that’s who they are.”

Mandy shrugged. “Maybe they’re right about that, too. Dani, Maria, Laura — not to mention Kid-E, Trans–”

“They’re not the Adjusted League. And I don’t care who says it — we both know there’s no Trashman. Not any more.”

“So, you’re not advising me to leave the League alone?” Mandy’s voice was soft.

Elizabeth looked at her for a long moment. “No,” she said. “I want them taken out. However we have to do it. If they want to come in — make a case for the Board, we can discuss reopening that door. They don’t get to just declare it. And that’s assuming the city or the state goes for it. And that’s not even touching on the Federal government. We’re not Canada.”

Mandy half-smiled. “Too true,” she said. “But–”

There was a rush of wind and a green blur shot through, skidding to a perfect stop six feet from the pair, even as it seemed to grow a wriggling appendage. Alice, still in the green and yellow costume with the lightning bolts on it, was holding a young blond boy in a grey training outfit by the scruff of the neck. “There you are,” the speedster snapped.

The nine year old struggled, his arms and legs still hazy and indistinct. “Let me go!”

“Kirby,” Elizabeth snapped. “I’ve told you not to go snooping!”

“I’m not snooping,” the boy groused.

“You certainly weren’t invited to this meeting today. That’s snooping enough for my purposes. Alice–”

“Hey, sorry. He’s gotten better at this.”

“Not better enough. You found me.”

“That’s because I’m good. You’re just better than you were.” And that’s too good, the former Momentum sent telepathically to Mandy and Elizabeth. He goes psi-null when he goes stealthy. I’ve had to track him down by figuring out psychic dead spots.

Greeeeeat, Elizabeth sent back. My son the sponge. “I’m not going to have this conversation with you again, young man,” she was saying verbally. “If you’re going to be a student at this Academy you’re going to have to do things properly.”

“This isn’t fair,” the boy snapped. “This is the Rogers Institute. I’m the only person with the last name of Rogers here! By rights you all work for me!”

“Well, when you turn eighteen you can fire me,” Mandy said. “But right now, I’ve still got the job and you’ve got a trust fund and a bunch of stock your mother votes for you.”

“And you can’t fire me, eighteen or eighty,” Elizabeth said. “I’m always going to be your mother.”

“I don’t know why you care anyway,” Kirby said, kicking the ground now that Alice had set him down. “You just talked about money and boring things at your dumb meeting. That and the League.”

“The League?” Alice asked, eyebrow arched.

“They’re gonna throw them in jail.” Kirby said. “They’re all pissed off because Trashman sided with them instead–”

“Kirby!” Elizabeth had gotten good with the full Mom voice over the past nine years. She didn’t break it out more than she had to, but when she did….

Kirby flinched. “Sorry,” he said.

“We don’t use that language. We find better ways to express ourselves. And that’s not Trashman.”

“You just don’t want it to be Trashman,” Kirby said. “If it’s Trashman, then he didn’t die, he just left you!”

The silence was palpable.

Kirby looked down. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he half-whispered.

“We made a choice when we decided to tell you about your father,” Elizabeth said quietly. “We decided you were old enough to know the truth. That’s a trust, Kirby. You need to keep it. Now go on. Ms. Mercury will take you back to the Academy wing. We’ll talk about this later.”

Alice’s lips were pursed. “Sure thing, Lil. C’mon, kid.”

“Sure,” she said. “See you, Alice. Later, squirt.”

“See you. Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, Kirby.” Elizabeth watched Alice escort her son out of the room. She turned to Mandy. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m all for taking the League down.”

* * * * * *

Different packs of Ensemble wore different colors. This was one of the Chuffington High sets. Their uniforms were maroon, with white overlays and their dumbass hats were smooth and had visors. But they were all the same when you were facing them down. This group was drilling right in the middle of Charles street. The oboes were a hair out of tune. And the Cornet players were blowing up cars and bus stops, but what do you expect?

They were in formation when the burst of blue light released in the middle of them. A shockwave of pebbles, each going about thirty miles an hour spreading outward, dispersed that quickly enough.

“What the Hell?” one of the bandleaders shouted.

“It’s Ordinal!” a bassonist shouted, bringing his instrument up and firing a plume of fire at the woman in blue.

Ordinal threw herself backwards as the flame shot out, pushing through a transgate that opened on the other side of the group. She jumped into a tornado kick, still thirty feet from the dark band members. A burst of Cherenkov radiation flared from both her foot and the side of the bassonist’s head at the apex of the kick, slamming him down to the side.

The Ensemble caught on quickly. “Get the trombonists!” someone shouted!

“Rush her!” someone else shouted. “She’s just one girl — and I heard she needs to concentrate to use her powers!”

Ordinal smiled, leaning back on one leg, moving her hands into a smooth kata. “You could just surrender,” she said. “My brother taught me to fight, and he never much went for fighting fair.”

Six of the Ensemble screamed and charged. So predictable.

Ordinal fluidly moved into the second form of the Kata, arclights flaring around her. They snapped and twisted around the Ensemble in echo, and suddenly Ordinal seemed to almost blur, she was moving so fast. She began to blur into attacks, spin-kicking and slapping with her hand, each strike meeting a small burst gate that transferred her attacks across the ten foot distance to her enemies. A blur of strikes, turns and blows turned into concussions after concussions striking down her opposition.

Ordinal smiled, letting the continuum shift drop. She enjoyed shifting frames of reference to make it appear she moved faster or them slower, but it took a lot of concentration and strength. She turned to face the remainder–

Trombonists! Their trombones held like rocket launchers and they fired–

Ordinal threw all her strength and focus into the moment, the dizzying array of pure mathematics flowing through her exceptional mind as she worked her fingers and space/time. It was as though the whole world slowed, the fifty caliber shells slowing in the air, surrounded by the burning powder that fired them from the brass bells. Too many for anything too subtle — she worked a broad transgate in front of her, the entry point shielding her from the weapons, the exit point straight down at the macadam of the street fifteen feet behind her. She could feel the strain of the reference manipulation, and let it drop. She heard the shells tear the pavement behind her, throwing herself forward into a roll and focusing perceptions, opening a small entrypoint gate near the trombonists, the endpoint over twelve miles straight up–

The pressure differential cracked in the middle of them with a boom that rattled them to their boots and knocking some of their silly hats off. Having throw them off balance, Ordinal opened a gate underneath them, and they plunged down. The exit point was five feet behind them, pointed down, but with a shift in reference that caused them to smack into the pavement with a jarring impact. Ordinal grinned, rising–

“Kettle drums!” the bandleader cried from the heap of fallen Ensemble minions. “Get her!”

There was the sound of metal on metal, and a packet truck opened its back end, letting out two giant armored bodies. They were brass and canvas — heavily armed and armored, jets of steam releasing from their joints as they moved forward with ‘thrum’ sounds.

“Oh you have got to be kidding,” Ordinal said, taking a step back. They had to be several tons each–

Far from kidding, the pair began to shoot, rotating miniguns firing with plumes of steam. Ordinal vanished in an implosion of blue/purple light, reappearing on the far side, emptying a pouch she carried of ball bearings. As they began the slow turn to face her, she threw, the ball bearings vanishing with a dozen cracks of blue light, crackling around the two armored thugs and hitting with the speed of high powered rifle shots.

The two Kettle Drum warriors got scuffed and dented but not seriously hurt. “Let’s cut her down to size!” one shouted, a missile tube sliding out and positioning.

“Yeah — better pop away, little girl!” the other one shouted. “You don’t have the mass to hurt us!”

Ordinal frowned. “That’s your truck, huh?”

“What, why do you–”

There was a fwhump as a transgate opened over the pair. To their credit, they both managed dizzying profanities as the white packet truck slammed on them, falling from twenty feet above them.

Ordinal slowly smiled.

And lost that smile as the truck exploded, the two finding their feet. “You’re dead!” one shouted–

With a clang, a shining silver disk arced out, slamming into one’s helmet, reflecting off and striking the other’s before boucing off, hitting the first’s armored body and flying back into the hand of a man in grey coveralls, already in a twisting turn.

“Hol– it’s Trashman!” one of the Kettle Drum warriors shouted.

“That’s impossible — he’s dead!” the other said.

“He’s gonna be dead!” And the first began firing the minigun at the man. He rolled forward, swinging around to bring the trash can lid to bear, bullets reflecting harmlessly off even as he hurled a paint can at the second, a viscous fluid spreading over the criminal’s visor. The second began firing. Trashman ducked and rolled to the side, leading the gunman — getting him to follow and focus–

With a hideous screech, the second Kettle Drum’s minigun bullets tore into the armor of the first, having focused on Trashman to the point of losing track of his location. With a cry, he ceased fire even as the first armored villain went down, steam and hydraulic fluid spraying everywhere even as the first villain popped the rescue lever and cracked the armor to escape–

Trashman threw himself out, twisting in air to land next to Ordinal.

“You’re late,” she said

“You ever try quickly getting a garbage packer through traffic without attracting attention?” he said, pushing the girl down behind a car as the still-active Kettle drum began tracking them again.

“I can’t say I have. Did Ops send you?”

“I don’t work for Ops.” He judged. “Eighteen feet up.”

“What?”

“Gate him eighteen feet in the air. His joints aren’t solid enough to handle that fall but it shouldn’t materially hurt the man inside.”

Ordinal nodded curtly, moving forward and working hands and body in a fluid movement — almost a dance. The Kettle drum saw her, tracking with the minigun, only to fall through a gate at his feet, blue/violet light searing around him. It opened eighteen feet above, precise to the micron, and the armored man fell. There were hideous cracks and hisses as the armor landed, the impact deforming the metal.

Ordinal half-smiled. “You were right again,” she said, turning.

But he was gone. As always.

The teleporter heard cheering. She looked around to see a crowd had formed — far enough back not to be in great danger, but close enough to watch the heroine fight. In the distance, she heard sirens.

Ordinal waved, a small smile on her face. And with an implosion of air and a burst of particle energy, she was gone.

* * * * * *

It was late in the day. Mandy walked into the elevator. “MIKE, you awake?” she asked as she stepped inside. «As always,» the AI said, his voice perky as always. «What’s your pleasure?»

“It’s been a long day. I’m heading home. Load pan bay please, and don’t spare the horses.”

«All horse sparing protocols have been disabled!» The elevator dropped. «We’re going to need to have another conversation with the Xolchipalian embassy, you know.»

Mandy sighed. “I thought everything was fine so long as your core systems were in the embassy. Not counting the walls of the building and very minor pickups, this building’s terrestrial.”

«Yeah, well… I think we can hold them off. But you guys are going to have to pay me more.»

“What do you even spend money on?”

«Look, I happen to enjoy Audible.com.» The elevator stopped in the Load Pan Bay. «And here we are.»

“Thank you kindly,” she said, though instead of walking out, she took a small rod out of pocket and stuck it in the elevator. She removed it and a trap door opened under her, causing her to fall. MIKE, in the meantime, clearly showed her walking out into the Load Pan Bay, getting into her car, and driving out. The car actually went, a remote of Mandy’s own design letting the alien AI control the vehicle. There would even be a record of their continued conversation.

Mandy had to come up with new cover conversations, though. At the rate they were having ‘strained negotiations with the embassy,’ MIKE was going to end up making seven figures by the end of the fiscal year. For now, however, she slid down a long slide down into a subbasement. A subbasement that appeared on no plans — it was a fallback shelter and escape route Trashman had added after the building had been commandeered by the Unimaginable League Amoral and the Awe-Inspiring Force in 1996. She landed smoothly and stepped through the cramped hallways. MIKE had no pickups down here — while the A.I. gladly helped where he could, they couldn’t afford to have transmissions be picked up down here. Not when there were so many smart people in the building above.

She walked into the computer room.

Darrin Bates was asleep in one of the chairs.

Mandy rolled her eyes and pushed the chair over. He cried out, electricity sparking around him. “What–”

“You were sleeping.”

“Hey! I had a long day! Some of us need to have day jobs, you know! I don’t get paid for this.”

“None of us get paid for this, and I work longer hours than you do. Hang on, I need to double check the Psi shield.” She began working computer controls.

“The Psi shield? I thought you were going to recruit Doctor T.”

“No go. I sounded her out at the meeting. She’s completely against the idea of the League.”

Darrin frowned. “Damn,” he said. “That could be trouble.”

“Oh yeah.” She swore under her breath. “You know, there’s six messages on here for you. From when you were sleeping. Calling for backup. Hell, Trashman had to step in because you weren’t around for Trans.”

Darrin chuckled. “Against who?”

“Ensemble.”

He laughed full out. “I bet they crapped their fruity little pants.”

“We’ll discuss this later. When I can get my Unbreakable Brip out of storage and beat the snot out of you.” She punched a button. “Good evening,” she said on broadcast. “This is Ops, online. Nice work tonight, League. Come on in. Capacitor’s going out and picking up pizza.”

“I am?” Capacitor said. “Hey, I’m a little light in the wallet–”

Mandy killed the mic. “Well, if you’d rather I tell Trans, Maria and Dani you fell asleep while on backup–”

“Right. Everyone eats meat, right?”

“Last time I checked.” Mandy slowly smiled, and began tracking the movements in the city neighborhoods. It was going to be a good night.

IS IT GOING TO BE A GOOD NIGHT?
WHAT MAKES A GOOD NIGHT?
ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD NIGHT?
IS TRASHMAN SOME KIND OF UNDEAD ZOMBIE CREATURE?
DID TRUDY REALLY SAIL STRAIGHT INTO THE SUN?
WHO NAMES THEIR SON KIRBY?

All these questions and many more will be answered — here on “The League,” only on SUPERGUY!

Er, and the places I crosspost it.

Don’t judge me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh huh,” I sniffed.

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

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

“Is he dead?” I asked Uncle Roger.

“Who?”

“The man. The man who attacked me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did the man deserve it?”

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

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

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

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

“But how did he do it?” I asked.

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

“But–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is… um, is Professor Dalton here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Release her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Banne.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Francis. Frank to you.”

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

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

“You’re not old,” I said quietly.

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

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

“When–”

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

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

“What do–”

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

“What can you do?”

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

“You know what I mean!”

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

“But… that’s not magic.”

“What is it, then?”

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

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

Someone asked me the difference between Leather and Lady Velvet. Well, there are a few. For one, Lady Velvet started out wanting to be a villain.

But the major difference between the pair is something close to twenty years. There are times age doesn’t matter at all. I have a lot of friends who weren’t even alive when I was their age. They’re fun and funny and sometimes a lot smarter than I am.

And sometimes, it matters. More than you might like to admit, it matters.

We haven’t had a chance to see any more of the good old days just yet, but that’s on the horizon. For now, though — please enjoy today’s chapter of Vilify 5.

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

May 28, 2005.
Saturday – 9:06 am

Conventions ran on adrenalin and enthusiasm, but first thing in the morning on a Saturday they ran on caffeine. Elle was on her second latte. She wasn’t bone weary — that would come midday on Sunday and then hit hard Monday morning — but you still needed a pick-me-up first thing in the morning. She should have made some of her own coffee. Alchemy had its uses.

“A’course things are different than the old days,” the Hook was saying. “Back in the old days, why — a pirate with a hook hand? That was enough for villainy. A few henchmen to be me swabbies? Why, we took on the Centurian in Mountainview or the Ancient Mariner on the high seas for years!” He shook his head. “But then, it’s like an arms race — and me with only half an arm! Arrr!” There was a chuckle. Elle smiled a bit too. The Hook was great in these panels. “More and more of the money I got from me villainy went to weapons and defenses. Me hook began firing energy bolts. Me boat became a military fortress. I stopped recruiting deckhands and started hiring tech support!”

“For me,” Elle cut in. “It was more a question of tone. I mean, when I first began threatening Greystone City, instead of the Nightwatch we had ‘Nightstick’ being followed around by teenaged sidekicks. Remember Cudgel and Shillelagh?” There was another chuckle. Elle kept her cheerful face on. Nightstick and Cudgel had been her enemies. Now they were Eighties camp nostalgia. “There was danger and excitement, but there was also this sense of fun in it all.” She shook her head, artfully tossing her hair. “Then, the Jack O’Knaves got deadlier. One by one the dark lords of Greystone either changed to match or retired. It took three jailings by the Nightwatch before I realized this wasn’t what I had signed up for.”

Tim Gordon, the assigned moderator for the panel, cut in. “I think most authorities recognize the real shift in tone happened between ’93 or ’94 and ’97. The rise of the Overking. Scourge’s attack in Greystone City. The slaughterfields in the Midwest, Paragirl’s death, Shillelagh being maimed, and Freya– yes? You have a question?”

The person asking was a Latina woman in the second row. She was maybe thirty. Attractive. “Yeah — I have a question for Refraction.”

Refraction had been quiet most of the time. He wasn’t in his element at all. Ah well, he’d learn soon enough. “Yes?” he asked.

“You first appeared in 2001, right? That fight against the Beacon? You were robbing the First Paramount City Bank?”

Refraction blinked, and laughed. “I guess that’s right,” he said. “Well, that’s the first place I fought the Beacon. How did you know that?”

The girl blushed and shrugged. “I guess I’m a fangirl,” she said, and there was a knowing laugh from the crowd. Elle smirked again. She was always amazed at what her fans knew about her — what they remembered or researched or verified. More than once she had been corrected on her own life. “Anyway — you first started after the whole Overking thing. I mean, you’re the only guy up there who started his life of crime after everything went dark–”

“We need to get to your question,” Tim Gordon cut in. The tyranny of Panel Moderators.

“Sorry. My question is — why’d you do it? Why’d you get into crime? And then why’d you quit?”

Refraction sat back in his seat, brow furrowed. “Well, the why I got into crime was simple enough. I built these optical processors for a dot com startup, and then they shafted me, sold my patents off from under me, and crashed out. I had thousands of shares of worthless stock and a mortgage payment. And then I realized I could put my optics to making a little money the easy way.” He grinned. “You know, by taking it.”

There was a laugh. Refraction looked a little more at ease with that.

The woman in the audience leaned forward, intently. “Then why did you quit?” she asked.

“I was wondering that, too,” Elle said, grinning and facing Refraction. “Did the Beacon just wear you down?”

Refraction’s smile slipped a bit. “Well, not really. I mean… she was always tough. I started really reworking my arsenal to fight her, you know? I mean, here I was — an optics master, and here’s a girl who turns into light.” He shook his head. “That last time, I was ready for her, too. Black light lasers. Refraction chambers. I was ready to suck her into the power pack for my ultimate weapon.”

“So why didn’t you, laddie?” the Hook asked. “Teach that Light House Lass a thing or two?”

Refraction chuckled uncomfortably. “Well, I baited the trap for her. But she didn’t show up. Paragon did.”

That got a laugh. Paragon’s name always got a laugh in these cases. Even the odd Paragon villain who showed up to these things seemed to understand how inevitable his victories were.

The fangirl wasn’t laughing. “So, Paragon knocked you out of crime?”

Refraction sort of laughed. “The Beacon was the best foe I could have asked for. But — it was like the Hook just said. I spent a shitload of cash on this arsenal, and then there’s an invincible alien over my head, blowing it all up and knocking me over like a two year old. With the investments I sunk into the arsenal to beat her lost in fighting an invincible alien? I just packed it in. Served my time. Got out. And here I am.” He grinned. I guess you really shouldn’t tug on Paragon’s cape.”

“Getting back to the topic of the panel,” Tim Gordon said. “Do you think there’s a difference between old school villainy and modern day criminals, Refraction?”

Refraction glanced at Elle. “I dunno,” he said. “I guess.”

May 28, 2005.
Saturday – 10:22 am

“Mm. I’m surprised. The clove stuff’s selling, huh?”

Juliet shrugged. The seventeen year old was in a purple leotard and tights, with a demicape. ‘Working the evil.’ Elle remembered when she thought that was fun instead of a chore. “They like the stinky stuff this year.”

“It’s the villain aspect. You get a lot of goths and goth wannabes.”

“Can I put on some of the Enchantress?” she asked. “I like that one.”

Elle nodded. “Take it from the sample bottle. Don’t open a new one. Where’s Mary?”

“She’s on break. I think she’s hitting on that guy from Bookthuggery.”

“She’s been on break a lot today, hasn’t she?”

Juliet shrugged. “It’s not so bad. She comes back when we get a line.”

Elle glanced around. “Here’s hoping she has to come back, then,” she muttered.

“You know, I don’t want to know how many situps you must do to fit in that bathing suit, squishy.”

Elle smirked, turning. Fletcher Joan had come up along the other side. “At least I can still wear a bathing suit, dahling. That leather hides the cellulite so well, though.”

Joan snorted. “So, looks like you staked the fresh blood early.”

“Mm? Refraction? Do you want him, dear?”

“Hey, I’m not sleeping with Potipher this year.”

“Well then. You’ll have to fight for him, won’t you?” Elle smiled a predatory smile.

Joan arched an eyebrow, smiling one of her own. “Well, if I have to.” She looked around. “Oh — oh, Elle. Have you seen this one guy? He has the best costume I’ve ever seen at one of these.”

“Hm?” Elle looked around too. “I don’t see–”

“There.” The archer pointed. Elle followed her finger. Just some guys in civvies.

Elle blinked. One of the men was in a blue suit with red tie. Horn rimmed glasses. Hair slicked back. He looked intentionally awkward. He was blond instead of brunette, but otherwise….

“Oh my God,” Elle murmured. “Some fan came as a mild mannered reporter for a major metropolitan newspaper?”

“Isn’t it delicious?” Joan asked. “I might let you have Refraction. He looks fun. And well built, too.”

“The ice woman deigning to sleep with a fanboy?”

Joan snorted.

“I thought you and the Hook had something.”

“The operative word being ‘had.’ Besides, you know we shouldn’t mix business with desperation.”

“Which one of you were desperate?”

Joan laughed. “At my age? Who can tell? Mm. I’m going to try a little target practice on that fanboy. Do I smell all right?”

“A bit leathery. I’ve got a musk that will go well with it, though.”

“How much?”

“Nothing at all.” She looked around the stand. “Where’s the sample of Black Glove?” she asked Juliet.

“I think we’re out of the Black Glove,” she said.

“The sample?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s it sold?”

“I think we sold two.”

Elle made a face, and grabbed the sample bottle of Elegant Dominion. “What do you think of this?” she asked, opening the bottle for Joan to smell.

Joan sniffed, and her eyebrows arched. “Oh, I like that,” she said.

“Good enough then. Let me do you up. I know a thing or two about lust potions.” She began to dab. Really, it’s not what she would have picked. There was musk, yes, and a hint of leather in the scent, but it had tannins and florals — more of a society dominatrix who wore leather as an accent.

But, then, Joan was lucky it wasn’t knockoff Charlie. “There, dahling,” she said. “You are enchanting.”

“We’ll see,” she said. “I’m goin’ in. If you don’t see me, watch for my hostage demands.”

“Hold out for a million,” Elle said, nodding as Joan withdrew. She watched her go for a moment, walking like a hunter through the crowd. She remembered back — oh, ’89 perhaps? Yes. She and Joan had taken on Nightstick and Arrowhead as a team. She’d been so cold then….

“All right,” Elle said, turning back to Juliet. “How did we go through three quarters of a sample bottle of Black Glove but only sell two? Are you sure you’re watching them try it?”

Juliet shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t like it.”

Elle snorted. “This crowd? Well, maybe.” A woman leaned over the other side, looking at the massage oils. “Ah… welcome, dahling. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

She blinked, stepping back. Elle recognized her — the woman from the morning panel. The Refraction fangirl. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean–”

“Not at all,” Elle said with a smile. “Mm. Looking for massage? Sensual or therapeutic?”

“Therapeutic,” she said. “I… don’t get much of a chance for sensual.”

Elle chuckled. “A lovely woman such as yourself? I’m shocked and disheartened.” She ducked around. “Clearly, you need to accessorize, dahling. Have you ever had a makeover?”

She looked around, a little nervous. “Well, no,” she said. “These things don’t have mind control chemicals in them, do they?”

Juliet giggled. “Perhaps they do,” she said. “But you will never know….”

Elle rolled her eyes. “Clearly, I should be training her as my apprentice. The Viscountess Velvet, perhaps. Or Princess Satin. Lady Lycra.”

“I could be Spandex Babe!” Juliet said with a grin.

“I take it back. You’ll never be my apprentice.” She encouraged the fangirl — the customer — to sit. “So what’s your name, dahling?”

“I — Rita. I’m Rita.”

“Hello, Ihmrita. That’s a pretty name. Persian, is it?”

Rita smiled, a touch self consciously. “Sorry. I didn’t really expect to be talking to you.”

“Mm. And now you’re star struck? Or disappointed I’m not Refraction.”

Rita flushed. “It’s not like that. I…” she paused, looking back at Elle. “Do you know Refraction? Outside of here, I mean?”

“I just met the boy yesterday, dear. Or do you mean know him? I mean, I’ll admit I work fast, but….”

Rita blushed even more. “Sorry. I didn’t… I can’t seem to get the words right today. This is all so strange.”

“Strange?” Juliet asked. “I don’t see how. Oops. ‘Scuse.” She stepped to the other side of the table, where a somewhat heavyset girl was looking over the perfumes. Attractive girl, red hair out of a bottle. A little too much eye makeup and kind of a goth schoolgirl thing going. “Salutations, dahling,” Juliet said, leaning and giving the trademark smile. “The Mistress bids you welcome and wonders what you might be looking for.”

Elle smiled. “Maybe I will make her an apprentice,” she said. “She likes doing that.”

“I don’t understand something,” Rita said. “You’re… an alchemist, right? Not a perfume maker?”

“Six of one. I don’t use quite so many eyes of newt these days but it’s all taking base components and synthesizing gold, my dear.” She smiled a bit.

“So… was there any magic to it?”

“Of course. Alchemy isn’t chemistry. It’s also not sorcery. It’s the natural meeting place of the two. Alchemy was prized by the nobility, suppressed by the church — banned and yearned for throughout time.” She picked up a bottle of the Nocturne and drizzled in some of this and that. She started to stir with a cedar stick. It wasn’t unlike whisking eggs, really.

“So… how’d you end up doing it?”

“How else? My father. How did you imagine I ended up named ‘Elle Chemical,’ anyhow?”

Rita blinked. “That’s your real name?”

“Elle Chemical, only child of Albert Chemical, himself the only son of Allen Chemical, and I think there’s an Elton back there somewhere too.” She added a couple of dried flower petals, crushing them with the stick and working them into the froth. “A long line of alchemists, desperately seeking to unlock the secrets of the universe. For my father, it was all about immortality — the regeneration and rejuvenation of the flesh, the recapturing of lost youth.”

“Wow,” Rita said. “Did it work?”

Elle shrugged. “He’s dead. I assume that means he failed.”

Rita flushed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

“No worries. It happened decades ago — before I ever became Lady Velvet.”

“So why’d you do it?”

Elle smirked. “I decided I wasn’t interested in immortality. I didn’t want to live forever. I wanted to live well. And I had the means to do just that.” She threw in the last bit of spice, and there was a burst of purple fire and light. “Hah HAH!”

There was a gasp, and light applause. A crowd had gathered — it usually did, when Elle was actually mixing something up at the table. “Thank you, dahlings. But don’t just watch. Buy.” That got a laugh, of course, even though Elle meant it.

Rita cocked her head. “Is that for me?” she asked.

“Not exclusively, dahling. But here.” She began to work on Rita — using what she made, along with her makeover board’s samples. She gave a few of these away per trip, because it meant people would pay later. It was a scam, really — but no one got hurt. And she had to steal something. Scent on the neck and a touch behind the ears. Creams in the skin. Slight color in the cheeks and on the eyes. A little bit of tingle to refresh the skin and open the pores.

“The MAC counter was never like this,” Rita murmured.

“Hacks, the lot of them. One step off from greasepaint. Cosmetics should be mysterious and personal, don’t you think.” She smiled a bit, and held up a mirror. “Well?”

Rita blinked. A casual observer would never think she was wearing anything, but her natural beauty was accentuated and drawn out. “That’s me?” she asked. Then flushed. “Wow, that’s the dumbest thing I ever said.”

“Then you’re an uncommonly wise speaker.” Elle smirked. “A perfectly baited hook for a rogue, perhaps?”

Rita opened her mouth. “Uh, you… you mean Refraction?”

“But of course. You are his biggest fan, aren’t you?”

Rita sort of shivered, folding her arms in front of herself. “I didn’t say that,” she said. “And… no. No, I’m not… it’s not like that.”

Elle smiled a bit more. “Good. I won’t feel so bad for stealing him away from you then.” She set the supplies down. “Now, let me select a few things. If you’re not buying right now, we’ll write them down for you. But you’re far too pretty to hide behind graduate student chic.”

“I — thank you,” Rita said. She looked a little overwhelmed.

“–think my girlfriend would like this?” Elle heard nearby. She looked. Juliet was talking to a man — a boy, really. He was holding one of the men’s scents. ‘Dominion,’ it looked like.

“Hm,” Juliet said, biting her lip and touching her chin with one gloved hand. A pose. “I’m not sure. Here.” She leaned forward, slightly arched, and opened the bottle. Elle frowned — she should have used the sample — but watched her take the top and dab it on either side of his face. The man was trying very hard to look anywhere but down the girl’s top.

Elle watched Juliet lean forward and sniffed, letting the scent from her shampoo hit his nose. “Oh yes,” Juliet said. “Your girlfriend will love that.”

The man didn’t quite faint or explode, but it was a near thing. “I’ll take it,” he said, not quite squeaking.

“Wow,” Rita said. “Are you sure she isn’t your apprentice?”

“I just hope her father doesn’t show up while she’s doing that. He’ll kill me.” But Elle was frowning. Juliet lacked a certain polish, and of course she wasn’t any kind of alchemist, but beyond that…

“What are you thinking?” Rita asked, very quietly.

Elle had asked her father why he cared so much about immortality, once. She couldn’t have been any older than Juliet was now. “It just seems silly,” she’d said.

“Elle, my belle, you have no idea,” he’d answered. “You don’t know what it’s like to look at some young buck — nineteen years old and convinced he can’t die, no pains in his knees, no gout in his toe, no sense that it’s almost all over.” He shook his head. “You don’t know what that’s like. You don’t know how badly you’ll want to just go back.”

“Nothing,” Elle said. “Here. Let’s start with fragrance.”

This is a fragment — an incomplete chapter one of a book never written, dating back to the early 90′s. As with pretty much every science fiction writer who was once twenty, this was the beginning of my dystopia novel. Back in the days when I figured I was going to graduate school as a matter of course, I had seriously considered Utopia and Dystopia as a concentration and field of study. I was considering that alongside 19th and 20th Century American Poetry, of course. It never entered my head to go for a Ph.D. in the Modern Superhero Story, which is a pity since that’s what I’d clearly be able to nail.

To that end, I started writing my dystopia. I called it America the Beautiful, because I was very, very earnest about it. This was going to be a call to arms — a warning for the ages that would rank with Brave New World and 1984.

You know. Just like all the other dystopias out there.

Well, I never got out of the first chapter. But rereading the first chapter I’m a little amazed — as unsubtle as the title was, the opening, the establishment of tone and character… it’s better than I expected when I went back to reread this. I’m actually moderately interested in what Thomas’s story would turn out to be.

Not that we’ll ever find out. At least, if I ever pick this up, it’ll be significantly different than whatever I intended fifteen years ago.

There is one thing I like in this, as well. To me, a good dystopia — I mean, a really good and scary one — had to be compelling. You had to get the sense that the people living in that society were perfectly content to live in that society. I didn’t believe 1984 would ever happen for the sheer fact that if the entire world was uncomfortable and unhappy, someone would do something about it in a power bid. Brave New World was far more likely, because as scary as that would was, you could believe the people living in it enjoyed themselves. And when people were happy, they weren’t rebelling against the social order.

Anyhow. Here it is. I hope you like it.

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

America the Beautiful

Chapter One

Thomas had been dreaming when the thunder woke him up. It had been a dream of sunshine and blue skys, in a field that was well mown, so that the smell of hay and grass hung in the air. It was a good smell. A healthy smell.

There were nervous voices all around Thomas. Chattering though it was hours after curfew. It was pitch black except for when the lightning flashed through the windows. There were twenty five windows in the room.

Thomas’s bunk was by a window. He had a window six months, then was placed across the aisle by the lockers. It was fair that way. Fair for everyone in the study cell. It was Thomas’s turn right now to be on the left side in the upper bunk by the window. Then he would be on the left side on the lower bunk by the lockers. Then on the right side on the lower bunk by the lockers, then by the window, and then back to where he was, but on the lower bunk. And then it would start over with him being on the left side in the upper bunk by the lockers, and the whole thing would start over.

There were eight bunks in a study cell. Eight students. And there were twenty-five study cells in a ward, which meant two hundred students per ward. The Hamilton institue had ten Beta wards, so there were two thousand students at the Beta level. Half male, half female.

The chattering was getting louder now, so the Voice-of-WorldNet spoke up. “Beta-stus of Ward Six,” it said in its cool, pleasant female voice. Half the time WorldNet was female, half the time it was male. “It is past the curfew hour. Talking keeps your fellow Beta-stus awake, and that is unfair to them. Please refrain from talking.”

The noise lessened slightly, but not much. There would be two more messages before the Hall Proctor would be summoned. Until then, there wouldn’t even be a record beyond `mild disturbance,’ and that was no big deal.

Thomas thought about his dream. It smelled like the playground back when he was a pupil at the Hall Primary Instruction Center. It had been thick with hay and warm air, out in the country, and students got to run in the fields during recess times. That had been some years ago. Thomas was sixteen now. Two years away from Tertiary Apprentiship. He had been at the Hamilton institute since he was thirteen.

There was another rumble of thunder. Thomas rolled over and faced the window. There was an old tree just outside the window. Old and a little twisted, but with a smattering of leaves still on it. It wasn’t dead. All the outside and inside lights were off, so he could only see the tree when the lightning flashed, giving him glimpses of bark, twig, leaf.

“Beta-stus of Ward Six,” the male voice said. “It is past curfew. By talking, you are acting in a divisionary manner. Please refrain.”

Thomas wondered what time it was. The active ID on his wrist had a chronometer, but at this hour of the evening he’d have to illuminate the dial to check the time, and that would make a record on WorldNet that he was awake and active. That might bring the Hall Proctor sooner, or it might mean a visit to a Medical Proctor to see if he were all right, since his usual routine was off.

Another flash of lightning. The tree branches looked ominous.

Thomas was in Bunk Sixty-Six Upper in Ward Six. Six and six and six were eighteen. One and eight were nine. Three threes made nine. Two threes made six. Three sixes made eighteen. Two three-threes made eighteen, and so did three two-threes. Thomas was sixteen, which together made seven, which had no divisors. It was a prime number. So was two and so was three, but not six, or nine, or sixteen or eighteen. Four fours made sixteen, and so did two eights. There were eight students in a study cell. There were forty students in a class, which was five eights. Five was a prime number. Thomas’s Study Cell was number Eighteen in Ward Six. Six and eighteen made twenty-four, or four sixes. It was also three eights. Factored, it was two by two by two by three. Three twos and a three. A two bracketed by threes.

The field had been warm, and there were children playing in it, and Thomas had been playing with them. He was sure of that, though he couldn’t remember the game. It might have been a counting game, because Thomas liked those. He liked them almost as much as he liked drawing.

Study cell eighteen was part of Class Four, Study Cells Sixteen through Twenty. They were Betas and all of them liked to draw. They were all good at it, too. Class Four was devoted to the draftsmen and the artists, who would one day be architechts and civil engineers, graphic designers and city planners. And of course illustrators and artists. Not too many artists — you didn’t need too many artists. But one or two, maybe. You needed more illustrators, of course. People to illustrate manuals and draw figures and diagrams. Cartoonists and animators to make amusements for the Gamma children and Delta adults. But artists — so called fine artists — weren’t needed in great numbers. Just a few. They worked for the Alphas and Betas.

The hay had been freshly mown, so it must have been late summer in his dream. That made sense. Everything made sense if you thought about it.

The tree glowed with the lightning. It was old and its branches were bare.

The funny thing about sleep was you never knew when it was going to happen. Thomas knew he had still been awake when the final warning sounded — the warning that got everyone to quiet down. He had been awake that long, staring out the window at the occasional flashes of light that let him see the tree. And he was sure he was awake longer than that, though he couldn’t check his active ID to know. He just lay there, staring and thinking about his dream and thinking about the numbers, and then the gentle tones of First Alarm was waking him up and it was six twenty-five in the morning.

It was thursday, so breakfast was oatmeal with skim milk, toast, a banana, three strawberries, a cup of tea or coffee — student’s preference — and juice. It was apple juice today. The oatmeal had brown sugar and maple syrup cooked in with it, so that it was like having a bowl of sweets for breakfast.

Each Ward filed into the messhall one after the other. Each Ward had five minutes to file through the line and collect their trays. They would sit at their wardroom tables, two tables per Ward with one hundred students each, and wait for the tone to sound. They then had twenty minutes to eat before the cleanup tone sounded and the Ward collected their trays and set them in the disposal. Ward One started collecting their trays at seven on the dot and began bussing them at twenty-five after, which was when Ward Six was collecting their trays. In that way, everyone had exactly the same amount of time to eat, which was only fair.

The chime to start eating, which was the same chime for Ward Seven to begin collecting their trays and for Ward Two to buss theirs. Breakfast was kept fast paced to discourage conversation. Later on, lunch and dinner would be leisurely, allowing Thomas and his classmates to discuss what they had learned in the day, what they had thought about this and that, and so forth. But at breakfast-time, you had to eat quickly and compose your thoughts for the day. Thomas’s thoughts were usually about what he was eating — that and counting chimes. They all had their active IDs on, of course — they didn’t come off — but with the passing of the years you just got used to listening for the chimes. Every five minutes, another would sound — Word Seven would start eating, while Ward Eight collected their trays and Ward Three would buss theirs. Then Eight would eat, Nine would collect, and Four would buss. Then Nine, Ten and Four. The next chime would be for Ward Ten to start eating and Ward Five to buss their trays, and then the chime would sound for Ward Six to buss their trays. It was for Ward Six alone, which Thomas liked though he knew he shouldn’t.

As soon as the tone sounded, Thomas dove into his oatmeal, the silver flash of the spoon’s bowl getting cut off as it cut into the brown oats, and then shoveled up the thick, warm paste into his mouth, and then back down, flashing of silver again. Up and down, up and down. It took twenty-three good sized spoonfuls to empty the bowl of all its oatmeal. Thomas had counted once.

Thomas usually ate his oatmeal first, on Thursdays. Then he would eat his toast, and then have his fruit with his tea, saving his juice for last. Today the strawberries were frozen — a little flake of ice in their center. It was wonderfully cold against his tongue, compared with the hot, red tea.

And then the juice. Cold against his teeth, washing out his mouth. He always finished with his juice, because he liked the feel of the cool liquid and he liked the tartness of the fruit, whether it was apple, orange or grapefruit. At the Hall School, the apple juice had been much sweeter, like syrup. This apple juice was tarter, and Thomas liked it very much.

Why have people stopped wearing watches and started dragging mobiles out of their pocket to check the time?

It’s something lots of people do. I do it myself. But it’s not ubiquitous. Lots of wristwatches are still out there and still being checked. Which makes it interesting, because it’s one of those rare things: a behavior in transition.

Which gives us something to talk about.

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

People often confuse the concept of Time with the concept of Telling Time. Time is, according to the American Heritage Dictionary, “a nonspatial continuum in which events occur in apparently irreversible succession from the past through the present to the future.” Telling time, on the other hand, is the skill one has in using either physical phenomena or — more often — artificial devices to determine at what point in a relatively arbitrary system defining the very real and yet very intangible ‘time’ said person is currently existing in.

Yeah, that’s way too thick a paragraph. Let me put it this way. There is Time, which exists, and there is Telling Time, which uses a system that doesn’t really exist to approximate and overlay comprehension onto a system that does exist.

One would think, based on that, that Time would be well represented mythologically speaking, and Telling Time would be barely represented if at all. In this, one would be wrong.

Telling Time has, in fact, always had a thick mythological basis. Its very artificial nature responds well to the interplay of imagination and perception that makes for the very best mythologies. When one is completely building their perception of time, and how to tell the difference between ‘then,’ ‘now’ and ‘soon,’ one has lots of elbow room and room for dissent. Throw in the difference between nanoseconds, seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, and millennia, and the potential mythological infrastructure is enormous. Now to all of that, add in mornings, afternoons, evenings, twilight, night, dusk, dawn, semesters, trimesters, seasons — natural ones like ‘Spring’ and less natural ones like ‘the Social’ — eons, ages, noon, midnight, yesterday, today, tomorrow, last week, this week, next week, last month, this month, next month, last year, this year, next year, before you were born, back when I was a kid, leaving it to your children, once upon a time and a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away….

Yeah.

So, this gives us the Houris of the Hours, and the Guardians of the Months, and Day Nymphs and the Spirits of the Ages and the Scions of the Centuries and any number of other things, and you’ll meet some of them as we tell more of these stories. Sometimes they contradict each other, but that’s why we have arbitration. It’s really very complicated.

But as for Time itself? We have one guy. That’s all. That’s all that’s necessary. Time exists, and this one guy embodies it. And mostly, he keeps to himself. And we don’t think much about him. After all, the fact of time isn’t nearly as important to our day to day lives as telling time.

Really, when we discuss Time Himself, we usually just imagine he’s wearing robes, maybe carrying a scythe, and generally refer to him as Father Time. And sure, once upon a time he wore robes, mostly because at the time he was hanging around monasteries — he enjoyed illuminating manuscripts and that was where the work was — and pretty much everyone there wore robes. And he did own a scythe, since he had a garden and they only recently invented hedge clippers and gas powered mowers.

But one thing we’ve gotten right. He is a Father. Specifically of a daughter named Natalie. And like good parents since the dawn of time — which is itself an artificial statement about time which Father Time himself would roll his eyes over, since he was in fact there and there was nothing remotely dawnlike about it — after Natalie graduated from College he used his pull to get her a good job. Specifically, Natalie was named the Intendant of What Time Is It? To her fell the concept of both the question — “hey, what time is it, anyway?” — and the answer to that question. Under her was also found “how long until” and “how long has it been since,” at least for shorter periods of time. Which means that while there were hundreds upon hundreds of daemons and Loci employed by the Telling Time industry, Natalie got the crux question. Father Time was pleased. His little girl deserved only the best.

Over time — no pun intended — Natalie would feel somewhat differently about it.

Donal checked the watch on his wrist. It was beautiful. A masterpiece of the art of timekeeping. It was an eighteen karat gold Rolex Cosmograph Daytona — one of the most sought after watches the world had produced. This was one of the ones unofficially called the ‘Paul Newman,’ and it would sell for a remarkable amount of money, if Donal ever chose to sell it.

Which of course he wouldn’t.

“We’re going to be late!” he shouted up the stairs. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

There was a pause.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” she called back down. She didn’t sound amused. She didn’t sound… anything at all, really. It was only the fact that she’d had to shout to be heard that meant her voice was raised in the first place.

“Just get ready. This is an important day for me.”

“They’re all important days for you.”

Donal snorted, and went into the study to fix himself a drink. Christ only knew how long the woman would take.

Finally, she came through the door. She had worn the Vera Wang in black. White accents. Well, good enough. “Finally,” he snapped. “Let’s get in the car.”

“I may not feel up to this,” she said, following. “You don’t really need me.”

“Of course I need you,” Donal said, opening her door. “Why would you even say that? This is the event of the year.”

“It’s the Midsummer Ball,” she said, sliding into her seat. “It’s no big deal.”

Donal snorted. “No big deal, she says.”

She shrugged.

Donal looked at her. “Hey,” he snapped. “Look at me.”

She kept looking straight ahead.

“I said look at me.”

She turned to look at him, finally.

“I didn’t get my social standing handed to me by my father,” he said. “I worked for it. This event makes or breaks that standing for a year. The elite are on display, and I don’t want any of them to forget for an instant that I’m one of them. And that means you’re going to smile and be nice to people.”

She sighed and looked away. “Do we have to stay long?”

“You can do whatever the Hell you want, once we’ve done a circuit or two.” He pulled the Aston Martin out.

“You know, Sam and I used to do the Midsummer Ball each year,” she said, looking out the side window. Watching the trees and houses go by as they drove through Behind The Scenes of the World. “He was always so excited to go.” She chuckled. “They used to do a roast pork he loved. Every year. A month before the ball he would talk about that pork. ‘Natty, that glaze they use,’ he would say. ‘Oh, the empires that could be built upon that glaze.’”

Donal snorted. “You sure can pick them,” he said. “Thousands of loci in the worlds beyond the worlds, and you found the one man who went to the Midsummer Ball for the food.”

“Yeah,” she said. She kept looking out the window. “I sure can pick them.”

The dynastic powers were driven, of course. Their chauffeurs saw to the cars as they went in. Donal was self-made. It was a huge part of his identity, of his persona in society, so even though his car was worth more than most of the limousines, he drove himself and used that as pride. The valets drove the Aston Martin off as the two walked in. To the side, the Brownie at the door made the Announcement. “The Master of the Wristwatch,” he called out, “and the Intendant of What Time Is It?” His voice rose at the end, making it the question it should be.

“Do you suppose your father is here?” Donal asked, smiling amiably as he nodded to the peers as they passed them.

“Not likely,” Natalie answered. She had her professional smile on, greeting those she met in passing. “He hates these things.”

“I thought you were going ask him to come.” Donal’s smile never slipped, of course.

“Slipped my mind,” Natalie answered. Always smiling, always nodding.

“It would have looked good to be seen with Father Time,” Donal murmured smoothly, kissing the hand of the Duchess of Los Angeles.

“Then you should have asked him yourself,” Natalie answered, letting the Neighborhood Coordinator kiss her cheek.

“He’s your father,” Donal said, all too smoothly.

That was it. Natalie turned away from where the Viceroy of the Cul-de-Sac was waiting. “Yes, he is,” she snapped, just loudly enough to be audible. “And you should remember that.”

There was a hush. Donal paused, and smiled winningly as he turned to his girlfriend. “We’ll discuss it later,” he said. “Come on, let’s not keep our host waiting.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Natalie said, artificial sweetness in her voice. “I think I need a drink.”

Donal frowned, but Natalie turned on her heel and marched off. He watched her go, then chuckled. “You know, you think you’ve got them housebroken, but when you take them out to see company…”

There was a chuckle, strained from some, and Donal set back to work.

He found her at the bar twenty minutes later. She had a Cosmopolitan. And she was talking to Morris, the Digital Timepiece Developer. “–think that there’s a real potential for precision,” he was saying. “And there’s nothing innately unstylish about digital watches.”

“I always liked digital watches,” Natalie was answering. She had enough of a blush to her cheeks that Donal could tell this wasn’t her first Cosmopolitan of the evening. “It’s fun to watch the numbers change. I miss the LED displays, though.”

Morris chuckled. He looked out of place in his tuxedo. His glasses would look hipster, but his hair screamed ‘nerd’ instead.

Donal slid between Morris and Natalie. “On your way,” he murmured to the Digital Timepiece Developer. He nodded to the bartender. “Vesper martini,” he said. “Linnet blanc, Stolichnaya and Boodles British.”

Morris opened his mouth, closed it and stepped off.

Natalie snorted. “I was having a nice conversation with him.”

“He’s currying favor,” Donal snapped. “Trying to get in good with you.”

“And you wouldn’t know anything about that,” Natalie snapped back. “He work with me, you know.”

“He works for me,” Donal answered, glaring at her. “And digital watches didn’t work out. They’re ugly and they’re crass.”

“You’re just afraid he’ll do to you what you did to Sam.”

Donal snorted. “Our dear Count of Pocket Watches was fat. Morris is gangly. You came with me because I was smooth and stylish. Precise. You like precision, don’t you.”

“I’m sick of this,” Natalie said, looking into her drink. “I’m sick of you, Donal.”

Donal chuckled.

“That amuses you?”

“Of course it does,” he said. “You need me, Natalie. Before me, no one could answer your question. Not effectively. I’m the logical conclusion to your aspect. Don’t pretend you can throw me over tomorrow without doing yourself a significant disservice.”

“You think people would stop checking their watches if I dumped your ass?”

“I think we’re not going to find out any time soon, little princess. You want to get drunk? That’s fine. Stay away from clockmakers and timekeepers.” He stepped off, and walked back into the fray.

Natalie stared at him, then nodded to the bartender for another drink.

“No offense, Miss What Time It Is? But your boyfriend’s a dick.”

Natalie turned. Her speaker wore his tuxedo a little more comfortably than Morris had, but he’d also loosened his collar. His dark hair was short. He looked roguish more than handsome.

“What Time is it,” Natalie corrected with a slight smile.

“You’re asking me? My aspect doesn’t even touch on time.” He smiled. “Jason. Proconsul of Portable Telephony.” He offered his hand.

Natalie shook it. “A pleasure,” she said. She looked out across the room, where Donal was laughing it up with the Right People. “Call me Natalie.”

“Seriously,” Jason said, leaning next to her. “That guy’s a total dick. You can do better.”

“You mean I could be with you instead?” She chuckled. “That’s what got me Donal in the first place.”

Jason snorted. “I don’t care if you go out with me or not. I just don’t like seeing guys step on their significant others.”

“That implies I’m significant,” Natalie said.

“Aren’t you? You outrank him. He works for you.”

“What a wonderfully black and white world you live in.” Natalie accepted her fresh drink. “He knows full well that if I dumped him tomorrow, he’d still be the most important man in my life, fully capable of demanding whatever he wanted from me. And as for me? I’m just like his Rolex, or his car, or his pretentious James Bond drink. I’m an accessory. I’m proof he’s arrived and the social world has to take him seriously.” She sipped the slightly tart liquid. “Most of the time, it’s easy enough. I barely need to see him.”

Jason shook his head. “And is that what life is supposed to be?” he asked her. “Is that what you ask out of a relationship? ‘I can’t stand him but I can’t get rid of him and besides — I never need to see him?’”

Natalie shrugged. “Every relationship I’ve been in has tied back to my work, somehow. They court me so that they can make it to the top of the heap. I was annoyed with how Donal dismissed Morris but Donal wasn’t wrong — Morris can’t look at me without seeing how I could expand the role of digital timepieces in the world.”

“So find someone who doesn’t have anything to do with the time,” Jason said. “Or find no one at all. Go it alone for a few years.”

“I like being in a relationship,” Natalie said.

“Do you like being in this relationship?”

“Besides, I’ve tried it with people who have no ties to the time. Date a locus with an unrelated aspect, and you end up never seeing each other. Your concerns and his concerns never touch, and ultimately you have nothing to talk about.”

“Then date a mortal.”

“I can’t.” She looked at Jason. “Some powers can get away with dating a mortal, but my aspect’s too big. Too all pervasive. I tried it once. I practically drove the poor man mad.” She looked in her drink. “Maybe I deserve someone like Donal.”

“Bullshit.”

She looked at Jason.

“Bullshit,” he repeated. “He treats you like shit, Good Lady What Time Is It.” He missed the question at the end of her Aspect, but Natalie let it go. “You don’t deserve to be treated like that. You deserve to enjoy yourself. To enjoy a relationship. To have someone who treats you well and who you can treat well.”

“Someone like you?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “You’ve said that twice now. Do I find you attractive? Yes. And would I treat you better than the Watchkeeper? Damn right I would. But that’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

Jason leaned in. “It doesn’t matter if I’d treat you better,” he said softly. “The point is he treats you like shit.”

She looked back out. Donal was in his element now. Networking. Showing off. He gestured in her direction once, but didn’t look her way. “So be alone,” she said. “Or go out with someone who has nothing to do with my life. Or drive some other poor mortal insane.”

“There’s another option,” Jason said softly.

“What?”

“Find someone whose aspect touches on yours, but doesn’t depend on it.”

Natalie frowned. “Like who?”

Jason shrugged. “I dunno. Don’t computers have clocks on them?”

“Well, yes….”

“But a computer locus wouldn’t rely on you. Your beneficence would benefit him, and his would benefit you, but you wouldn’t need each other in any unhealthy way.”

Natalie considered, then shook her head. “It wouldn’t work,” she said. “Computers aren’t ubiquitous enough. I’d still spend all my time with Donal or someone like him, only now he’d be bitter.”

Jason shrugged. “Then find something that is ubiquitous. Or that will be ubiquitous. If that’s how you have to define your relationships.”

Natalie looked at Jason. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Okay. Tell me about portable phones.”

Jason blinked, and chuckled. “I didn’t mean me.”

“Why not. Just because they’re niche products?”

“They’re niche right now, but they’re going to expand,” Jason said. “They’re getting smaller, and the batteries are getting better. They’re useful, and in their own way they’re as much a status symbol as your boyfriend’s Rolex. Only it’s the models that do more that get the higher status. And that’s only going to grow.” He shook his head. “One day more people will have portables than regular wired telephones. One day, it’ll seem strange when someone doesn’t carry a phone.”

“So, they’ll be ubiquitous?” she said, smirking.

Jason blinked. “Well, yes,” he said. “But then, I’m biased.”

“I’ll bet you are.” She drank the rest of her drink. “Did you ever think of putting a clock in a phone?”

Jason frowned. “A clock?”

“Absolutely. A digital clock, since I’m annoyed with Donal and therefore feeling charitable to Morris right now.”

“Well, there’s no reason we couldn’t….”

Natalie smiled a bit more. “Then let me ask you something, Jason of the Portable Phone. You’ve been very careful to at least sound like you’re just concerned about my welfare, not about getting me naked. Do you want to get me naked?”

Jason looked in Natalie’s eyes. “Maybe,” he said. “I don’t really know you.”

“Good answer.” She set her glass down. “Do you care what people think of you? Do you care if you seem outrageous or silly?”

Jason shrugged. “Not really.”

“Another good answer.” She looked back at him. “What’s my aspect again?”

“What time is it.”

“No. There’s supposed to be a question mark at the end of that sentence. Say it right.”

Jason smiled slightly. “What time is it?”

“Time for me to leave. If you’re willing to throw caution to the wind, you can follow me out.” And with that, the Intendant of What Time Is It? strode for the entryway.

Jason watched her go for a long moment, then set his drink down on the bar and followed.

Donal didn’t notice either one of them as they left.

Systems of time are artificial, but they’re convenient. For example, though Father Time himself simply knows that time exists, and that time continues to move, it makes everything easier for you and I if I just say that we close the scene we just watched, and then looked ahead several years, to another night, and another Midsummer Ball.

“The Intendant of What Time Is It?” the Brownie said. Natalie was in red this year, with silver accents. She looked good.

“Good Lady,” Morris said, stepping to her. They kissed each other on the cheeks. He was wearing wire rims now, and had moved towards ‘hipster’ with his hair. It was a better look for him. “You look smashing tonight.” He grinned.

“I feel smashing, tonight,” Natalie answered. “And I hope there’s a good Riesling with my name on it.”

“It seems likely.” Morris snapped his fingers at one of the walking waiters. The Satyr diverted, offering a tray of flutes. Natalie took one and sipped. Chardonney, not Riesling, but it was still nice. “Projections are looking good for the next quarter.”

“I’ll bet.” She smiled a bit. “But do we have to launch into work? It’s a party. I skipped lunch to make room.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” Morris said, grinning.

There was movement to the side. Natalie glanced and rolled her eyes. “Incoming,” she said with a smirk.

Donal half-stormed up to the pair. “We need to talk,” he said.

“Hello, Donal. You’re looking nice tonight. How’s your trick knee been acting?” Natalie smiled more broadly.

Donal shot a glance to Morris. “I need to speak to the Lady,” he said.

“And?” Morris asked. His bearing didn’t shift in the slightest.

“And that means I need you to go away.”

Morris shrugged. “We all have needs, Donal. But I was about to ask Natalie to dance.”

“That sounds lovely,” Natalie said. “Donal, be a good boy and wait at the bar. I’m sure I can make time later on.”

Donal pursed his lips. He turned and stormed off, but he didn’t say anything.

“Is it petty that I enjoyed that?” Morris asked.

“I hope not. I’ve been enjoying it for some time. I didn’t realize you’d disconnected so much from him.”

“These days? He needs all the watch buyers he can get. As for me — there’s lots of digital timepieces in the world.”

“There certainly are. I–”

“–all right since Bruce Springsteen! Madonna! Way before Nirvana — there was U2, and Blondie, and music still on MTV–”

“That’s me,” Natalie said, pulling her RAZR out of her clutch bag and flipping it open. “Hey, Jase. You’re late.” She sounded amused.

“Yeah, well, sue me,” Jason said with a chuckle. “I’m about a half hour out. Forgive me?”

“This time, sure. But I’m going to eat without you.”

“Go nuts. Love you, Nattily.”

“Love you too.” She folded the phone, and glanced at the front. 8:14. She could have known the time instantly, of course — it was her Aspect — but she liked the ritual. “Right. Let’s dance, Morris. And then we eat. I hope they’re doing the pork this year. They have a glaze — I swear to God, it’s to die for.”

And, in case you haven’t figured it out, I’m not any of those people. Nor do I have much hope of ever becoming any of them.

But, when you’re writing full on fiction, without pictures… you can write human stories about superhumans. For example, this one.

This story actually predates “Interviewing Leather” in short story form. This is an expansion of said short story, to better fit the mosaic novel style thing I seem to be building. And it follows out of last week’s prologue in ways that should be obvious.

This is a story about supervillains and superculture, sure. But it’s also a story about fans, cons, con culture, and whatever else seemed to fit. It tells a story (I hope) and sets up a few other stories (I hope), and I hope you like it.

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

May 27, 2005.
Friday – 1:32 pm

Elle was leaning against the hotel’s outside wall. She’d pulled a chair out with her, but hadn’t sat down. It was sunny, and too hot, but the only place you could smoke on this floor of the hotel was in the bar, and that was too far away from the dealer’s room. This was just a five minute break from setup.

Out here, Elle had a cloak on over the ‘show off the goods’ suit. Back in the day, the first few suits had been modified swimsuits. Then, she went with lycra leotards. And after she made a name for herself she’d gotten her costume supplies from Undercrime Mail Support, like everyone else. She was still on their mailing list, though she’d dropped down from VIP to ‘valued customer.’ The price of legitimacy.

Besides, they were being killed by the internet. But then, that was Elle’s bread and butter.

“Excuse me?”

Elle slipped the cigarette out of her mouth, putting on her Convention smile. It was even odds that a congoer would track her down out here — this door was used by vendors to get their goods into the dealer’s room, but there was a parking lot. She turned, and was slightly surprised to recognize the young man who’d seen her. He wore a silver and black bodysuit, festooned with mirrors and lenses along his belt. Early twenties, with short brown hair. His face was pretty, not rugged — really, too pretty to be Bar Sinister. “Yes,” she said, smiling winningly.

“I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to interrupt. But… aren’t you Elle Chemical? Lady Velvet?”

“Charmed… Refraction, isn’t it?” She held her hand, poised to be kissed instead of shaken.

The young man didn’t pick up on it, sliding his hand underneath it and pumping firmly. Children, she thought to herself. This is what they called a super villain these days. “That’s right,” he said. “I’m surprised you’ve heard of me. I mostly worked out of Paramount City. I thought I was more of a regional thing.”

“It pays to keep abreast of one’s peers,” Elle said. She didn’t want to admit to this twenty two year old that the great Lady Velvet spent her days watching the Superwatch channel like some fangirl. “You were one of the Beacon’s rogues, weren’t you? I hadn’t heard you retired.”

Refraction laughed, somewhat uncomfortably. “Yeah, well — I had a change of heart. But still — I mean, you’re Lady Velvet. You’re one of the greats!”

“Maybe, once,” Elle said, sitting in her chair. “But I was never better than second tier. Sometimes lower. I’m sure Nightstick — or, I suppose, the Nightwatch — rued my name a few times. But, by the time I packed it in he considered me a light week. A relief after one of Jack O’Knaves’s rampages.”

“Have you actually met the Jack O’Knaves?”

“Well, of course, dear. I actually worked with him once or twice. Come, surely you’ve met Darklord or Bandolier, fighting the Beacon and all.”

“Well, sure — but the Beacon… I mean, she’s a tough fight, and all, but her rogues are… well, we’re all a little lame. The Nightwatch’s rogues–”

“Are psychotic mass-murderers in greasepaint and top hats?” Elle finished for him, her painted lips quirking in a smile. “Yes. And that’s why I packed it in. Twelve or thirteen years ago, you could be slightly ridiculous and still give Nightstick a run for his money. Today? I’m more comfortable knowing the Nightwatch is stopping some of those twisted freaks.” She smiled, seeing a heavyset older man in the parking lot, wheeling a hand truck with plastic tubs on it. “Clinton!” she shouted. “Daaaaahling!”

The man smiled, waving back. “Please, Mistress Chemical. Not that name. We are on the field, and ’tis appropriate to adopt our sobriquets!”

“Who is that,” Refraction whispered.

“Clinton Potipher. The Cipher. He’s guest of honor this year.”

“Oh,” Refraction said, shaking his head. “Why him and not you? I mean, I remember him and all, but–”

“I was guest of honor at Villify 3. Then last year it was one of Paragon’s lot — Walabyne. You know, the alien with the Australian accent?”

“Yeah, sure. But–”

Elle shrugged. “They treat us the same. They pay us the same — which is to say barely, except for room and board. There’s a few perks for getting your name on the masthead, but for the big fan run cons you wait your turn and smile when your number doesn’t come up.” She stood as the Cipher approached. “Daaaahhhling,” she said again, in the trademarked purr of Lady Velvet. “You look faaaabulous. But you’re incognito.”

“I had no desire to soil mine attire with the sweat of manual labor. While I haul things in to my table, I elected to remain dressed for utilitarian purpose. I’ll be prepared for the opening ceremonies.” He took Elle’s hands, leaning close to kiss both her cheeks.

“You have a table here?” Refraction asked. “In the dealer’s room?’

“Of course, dear,” Elle said. “Cons like this are business. They don’t really pay us, but they give us room and board and sometimes travel expenses, and they let us sell our wares in the dealer’s room. I have a whole line of perfumes and remedies, as well as autographed photos and my CD.”

“A lovely disc, I would add,” the Cipher said. “She brings the standards to new life. I have books of puzzles, and my poetry and short stories, and of course tee shirts and photographs — dear Lady Velvet, are you working your own table this year?”

“On and off — I have a neighbor’s two daughters helping out. They love dressing up in the garb and walking the walk, so they’re willing to do it for food money and Con dealer passes. You?”

“My friend — Thomas? You remember. He sells the science fiction books and toys and the like? He has added my table to his and is handling sales. Mine schedule is too full with guesty activities for me to really stay too long at the table.”

“I can’t believe you two are selling things in the dealer’s room,” Refraction said again. “I mean… you’re… you guys fought the Nightwatch.”

“Once upon a time,” the Cipher said. “Once upon a time. But tales of terror and the warm memories of crossing swords with the the Greystone Guardian do not keep me in sandwiches and cable television. We all must make a living. Elle — I’ll see you at Opening Ceremonies?”

“Of course, dahling. I wouldn’t miss it.” She kissed his cheeks again, and watched him fondly as he pushed his tubs into the dealer’s room.

“He’s… not what I expected,” Refraction said. “I mean, he’s not… well, you. But still….”

“We were peers, really,” Elle said, sitting back down. “I hated him for a while. So pretentious, and he hits on anything in panties. About the ninth time you shoot a man down, you want to use real bullets.” She half-smiled, shaking her head. “But he grows on you. He loves these things so much.”

“Really? I’d think…” Refraction paused, trying to find the right words. “I’d think they’d be… embarrassing for him. Beneath him. Really, beneath both of you.”

Elle chuckled. “Are you kidding? He lives for these weekends. Do you know what he does the rest of the year?” Elle watched Refraction shake his head. “He works at a bookstore. Not even a mystery bookstore — he works for Barnes and Noble. Just another store worker — a fifty year old man and a pack of twenty-two year olds fresh out of college with an English degree they barely stayed awake to get.”

Elle closed her eyes. “But for the next three days, he’s the Cipher, all over again. A brilliant man who decrypted the most sophisticated defenses to commit the most daring crimes, leaving encoded clues that Nightstick and Cudgel themselves were hard pressed to decipher before his master plan went off. He was one of the dark gods of Greystone City, set in inexorable opposition to their greatest champion.” She opened her eyes. “Honestly, how do you begrudge a man his last few seconds of infamy?”

“Huh,” Refraction said. “I guess I never thought about it.” He looked at Elle. “Is that your story, too?”

Elle chuckled again. “Please, dahhhling. This is just business.”

May 27, 2005.
Friday – 4:14 pm

Bill Wallace had been Con Chair of Vilify as long as there had been a Vilify. A true fan of supervillainry, he had published papers on the sociological impact of super powered criminals and on the psychological necessity of the villain in a society that had superhuman heroes. Elle knew all of that, but seeing him in his tuxedo shirt and pants, and the vest with all the buttons (“Villains Do It Any Way They Want,” “Mad Science Means Never Having To Say You’re Sorry,” “I Told Those Fools At The Institute They Would Pay,” and a number of Star Trek based ones) he just screamed fan to Elle. Bill and guys like him were the reason she could make a living selling glamour shots taken when she was eight years younger and perfumes that were overpriced but ‘brewed by the diabolical hands of Lady Velvet.’ They’d show up to these things even if no retired supervillains were on hand.

But they were so happy they were.

“We have over two thousand preregistered guests,” Wallace was saying at the podium. “So, just in preregistrations alone we’ve matched last year’s attendance.” He paused for the applause from the audience. “Thank you. It’s all thanks to you. And we’re looking at the biggest and best Vilify ever. Vilify 5′s theme is “Married to the Mob,” and you’ll see any number of gangster themed panels and events. We’re also pleased that Chattergun Calhoon has been able to be a special guest. He’s not at the opening ceremonies, but you can see him at a special event in the Cedar meeting room on the second floor mezzinine at four-thirty. So you can leave from here and head right up to see a man who took a shot at the Shroud.”

Bill paused for a sip of water, then grinned. “But you’ve probably not come to hear me talk.” He paused again for laughter — Elle had seen it at every fan con. The Con chair made a joke like that and half the audience played along with pantomimed ‘no, reallys?’ There was nothing like it anywhere else. “You’re here to see our very special guests. So, without further ado, let me introduce you to the masters of perfidy… the lords of larceny… the men and women who stand up to gods and do tug on Paragon’s cape… the supervillains!

There were cheers and applause then. Leathertooth, at the end of the head table, pumped his fist in the air. Elle gave her best diabolical smile. It was like performing. She had always put on a good ‘Lady Velvet,’ even when the Nightwatch scared the piss out of her.

Refraction had sat next to her — he clearly didn’t know much about these things, and he looked a little uncomfortable. She leaned close. “Smile,” she whispered. “Or glower. They’ll love you either way.”

There was a hum in her brain, and she heard the mental voice of Madame Hypnos — another old Con vet — whispering to her. “Who’s the preschooler, Elle? He looks good in tights, but still….”

Refraction, she thought back. Years of seeing Medea at cons had lent Elle good practice in projecting her thoughts to the telepath. One of Beacon’s. It’s his first con.

“And staked him out already? Aren’t we robbing the cradle?”

I’m a supervillain, dahling. I have to steal something.

“Why are they cheering?” Refraction whispered. “We’re criminals.”

“To them? We’re celebrities. Just enjoy yourself.”

“On the end,” Bill was saying, “the winged raptor from another age… eternal nemesis of the Azurewing… it’s Leathertooth!”

Leathertooth stood, flaring his wings out, and crouching to give a toothy growl. He couldn’t keep from grinning though. He was good with kids, even giving some supervised swoops around the ballroom when their parents let him. The crowd loved him.

“On his right… you know her as the woman who brought Paragon to his knees…” there was a chuckle at that thought. “The mistress of the mind… Madame Hypnos!”

Elle smiled, watching Medea rise crosslegged into the air, reaching out to life two of the younger audience members telekinetically. There were the appropriate oohs and aws.

“We’re supposed to have a trick?” Refraction hissed to Elle. “No one told me to have a trick.”

“Then just stand and wave, dear. Do you have any of your equipment with you?”

“I… I don’t… well, yes….”

“I’ll swap places. Give you a moment to think.” Medea, she thought towards the mentalist, who was just getting her seat. Tell Bill to introduce me before Refraction.

“You’ve got it,” Medea thought back. “He didn’t come with a trick, did he?”

Ahh, the follies of youth.

“Next… the one archer able to go arrow to arrow with Arrowhead himself… the dead eye deadshot. The ice woman… it’s Fletcher Joan!”

Joan was wearing the good leather outfit — the bondage outfit. Elle was jealous — Elle had made her name by showing skin, and that meant she couldn’t easily cover it up now that she was pushing forty. Joan covered head to toe in imperfection-concealing leather still made the fanboys pant. She fluidly drew and fired four target arrows into the ballroom’s rafters, where she’d strung up the targets before. The targets exploded harmlessly into sound and light, thrilling the crowd as always.

Elle took her own deep breaths while Titan James and the Hook did their routines. She should have been the last one called before the Cipher — she was certainly one of the star attractions — but this would work out too. After all, either he’d pull through and dazzle the crowd with something new, or he’d fall on his face and make her look better.

“And now… the First Lady of Felony… the Seductive Siren of Scams… the bane of Nightwatch himself… Miss Elle Chemical, the Sensual Lady Velvet!”

The crowd fairly exploded — especially the men. Elle gave her famous red lipped smile, rising and posing, squeezing her hands tight and cracking the vials she held in her protective gloves. Columns of multicolored smoke swept into the air, with glistening motes of light flaring, the scent of jasmine filling the room, forming a frame while Elle tried to project pure sex in her bearing.

It worked, of course. The applause turned to hoots and whistles. “Daaaaaahlings,” she crooned, loud enough to need no PA. “Prepare yourselves for a sinfully good weekend.”

Elle slid back down as the smoke cleared. She glanced at Refraction, who had two of his small prisms in his hands. He glanced up, and hissed “when you see the flash of bright light, get up and pose again!” to her.

Elle blinked, about to ask what he intended, when Bill’s voice came back over the PA. “And finally, a newcomer to Vilify this year. A talented and dangerous villain who has contended with the Beacon on her own terms and even faced Paragon himself down. The Lord of Light… give a warm Vilify welcome to Refraction!”

Refraction stood, clearly nervous, and lifted his hands. He brought them down, slapping the prisms together, and a burst of white light filled the room to startled shouts and gasps. Elle, having expected it, pushed to her feet and struck her pose, even though her own vision needed to clear….

As it did, she realized there was a hologram over the audience — a hologram of her in the pose she was holding. She threw her best wicked smile back on her face, and held it. I’ve finally finished my transition, she thought. From super villain seeking to rule Greystone City to scantily clad magician’s assistant.

The crowd, their own eyes recovering, began to applaud anew. The same guys who’d hooted and whistled for Elle did so again, and the people who’d seen Lady Velvet’s act before applauded for this new, larger than life wrinkle.

“Nice,” she murmured as she and Refraction sat back down.

“They already love you,” he whispered back. “Seemed ridiculous to try and compete with that.”

“And we couldn’t have you being ridiculous, now could we?” Elle smiled more, sliding a hand along Refraction’s arm. The young man blushed slightly. She still had it.

“And now,” Bill said, as the applause died out. “Vilify 5 is proud to present… the connoisseur of conundrums. The exemplar of enigmas. A man who on no less than nine occasions stopped the Greystone City Police Department dead citywide. The Grand Master of Greed… our Guest of Honor, and one of the few men to truly challenge the Nightwatch on his own terms and at his own level… he is… the Cipher.”

There was a tremble as bass heavy music began to play. A thick black smoke began to swarm and weave — Elle couldn’t see how the trick was done. The lights seemed to dim, and then as the black clouds parted the Cipher stood where Bill had been. He wore his grey three piece suit and bowler hat, like he was an evil butler, and held his trick cane. Numbers and letters covered his suit, of course, a panorama of codes and symbols, and he laughed that spooky laugh of his. Most years the Cipher didn’t get to go all out with his entrance, but Elle had to admit he understood the theatrics involved.

“Greetings, fellow scions of the dark society. Greetings, brothers of the fraternity most sinister. Welcome once again to the lodge where justice holds no sway and darkness rules the night. Welcome to Vilify… may you survive to leave!” And he laughed once more, lifting his arms and causing another cloud of smoke to wend around him.

The audience went nuts. They ate the Cipher’s act up with a spoon.

Refraction watched the Cipher gesture, drinking in the crowd’s applause. And Elle watched Refraction. She saw him frown, ever so slightly.

Smiling a touch, she squeezed his arm. He blinked and looked back at her. “Don’t worry about him,” she murmured. “There must be better things to talk about.”