Firedrake Chapter 15by T. Mike McCurley
-February 12-
Tossing and turning in his bed, caught in the throes of yet another nightmare, the man known to the world as Patriot knocked the lamp from his bedside table to the floor. The crashing sound woke him with a start and he looked around the room, unable for a second to discern his whereabouts. He looked to the space beside him in the bed, expecting for just a moment to find Shae Ling lying there, but it was empty and cold. He took a deep breath to calm himself as he thought of the fights that had led her to leave. In the end, his inflexibility and inability to forget the horrors of his own past had made it easy for her. After a while, their relationship had spiraled rapidly into a pit of anger and neglect. As usual, she had been a focal point in his nightmares. Captured by one genebooster criminal or another, she was tortured as a means to draw him out. In his dreams he was unable to move or speak, and was forced to watch as all manner of cruelty was inflicted on the woman whom, In spite of their differences, he still loved. Smacking his mouth to clear the taste of his sleep, he sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the box of Marlboros from the table. He lit it with a chromed Zippo given to him by Henry Kissinger and sucked the hot smoke deep into his lungs. As he exhaled the first lungful, he became aware of a presence in the room that he had somehow missed. Standing and turning toward the bathroom, he saw her for the merest fraction of a second, framed by the bathroom door. The vision made his breath catch in his throat. “Alicia?” he whispered, voice cracking. He fumbled for the lamp, remembering suddenly that he had knocked it onto the floor. He grabbed for it and flicked at the switch. Bathing the room in harsh white light that made him blink madly for a moment as his eyes adjusted. When he could see, he looked again, but she was gone. Placing the lamp once more on the table, he walked across the thick scarlet carpet to the telephone that rested on a table. Punching in a series of numbers, he waited until the sleepy voice on the other end answered. “I saw her,” he said bluntly. “Angelo?” asked the voice. It held a slight trace of a French accent. “What time is it?” “I don’t know. Two, three maybe.” “Great. Thanks so much for the alarm clock. Now who did you see?” “Alicia. She was here in my room.” “Christ. She’s dead, Angelo. She’s been dead for twenty-five years.” “You remember the day after we stopped Firebrand? That dinner at the White House?” he said insistently, pacing about the room with the receiver held between his shoulder and his ear. “Yes, I remember,” the voice said, sounding bored and still very tired. “She wore that white outfit with the scales of justice on the front?” “Yes, I remember. But what does that have -?” “That’s what she was wearing. I saw her, Emile, and now she’s gone.” There was silence on the other end of the phone as Emile digested what he had just been told. A moment later, a huge sigh was audible in Patriot’s ear. “I can not deal with this right now, Angelo. It is almost her day. Lady Justice Day, remember? Of course you are seeing her. We are all thinking about her, especially those of us who worked with her. You, more than anyone, need to relax. Think about what you have just come through. This near-fatal attack by an unseen foe, the cure that monsieur Drake said was magical, and now the agreement to perform on stage at the Lady Justice parade? Of course you are seeing her!” “It has nothing to do with any of that,” Patriot protested, but Emile cut him off before he could continue. “Listen. Some of us took a long time to come to terms with what happened. I spent years in therapy trying to put it behind me, and now I am hearing that you saw, what, her ghost?” “I am not crazy!” Patriot declared, voice rising as he gripped the phone tightly enough that it began to creak. “I did not say you were,” Emile soothed. “I meant only that…look, just let me get some sleep, all right? I will meet you there. Seven sharp, as agreed. Meantime, you need to rest yourself.” “Okay,” Patriot agreed after a moment. His grip relaxed on the receiver. “Excellent. Now go back to bed,” Emile ordered as he broke the connection. Patriot looked at the dead phone in his hand for a moment, then set it back on its cradle and padded back to his bed. Flicking ashes from his cigarette into the immense marble ashtray on the nightstand, he reclined on his pillow and stared fixedly at the bathroom. Almost an hour passed, and except for smoking another cigarette, he did not even move. After assuring himself that the vision would not repeat itself, he stood from the bed and placed another call.
-February 12- The image on the computer screen flickered once as Drake hammered a massive fist onto the table that supported the monitor. He snarled an obscenity in case the physical expression of his anger proved insufficient. “I got plans,” he declared, gritting his teeth. “Yes, I am certain you have,” replied Colleen Hart. She was being streamed live onto the computer utilized by the Austin geneboosters in whose house Drake was staying. “I can be that certain because I am in charge of making those plans. You have been unavailable to us for too long, Agent Drake, and it is obvious you are not really ‘taking some time off‘, as you put it. That little scenario with the enlarging pervert made CNN, you know.” “Yeah? I hope you taped it for me.” “My point is this, Agent,” Hart said, unwilling to take the verbal bait he dangled before her. “Your employment here is on an as-needed basis. Right now, you are needed. And that means that you will, immediately and forthwith, vacate the position in Austin and be airlifted to Atlanta for your new assignment. I will brook no argument on the subject,” she added, glaring harshly at him. “Argue on this,” he muttered, gesturing down to below his own camera feed. “Are you quite through?” she asked. Her tone was icy, though the involuntary shiver of disgust that ran through her body in response to his intimation was not lost on Drake. “Almost,” he said, refusing to concede the game at this early stage. “One question, though: Why me?” “Because he needs muscle,” she replied. “Who needs muscle?” he asked. “And it better not be that goofy little monkey with the pink eyes again.” “Patriot.” Drake’s yellow eyes snapped wide open and he sat forward with a sudden jerk of motion, threatening to collapse the metal desk chair he occupied. “He needs muscle? We are talking about the same guy, right? Patriot? Make sure it’s the same one,” he continued with enthusiastic sarcasm, talking over her quiet attempts to confirm his suspicions. “Big guy, blue suit, flies around, knocked down half the goddamned buildings in Iran? The one who is supposedly completely healed now? Healed because I risked my scaly ass to get him a cure? That Patriot? He needs muscle?” “Yes,” she said simply, content to wait him out as he ranted. “Patriot needs muscle!” Drake laughed into the air, pointedly not speaking to Hart but keeping his face close enough to the camera that there was no question she would hear. “He needs muscle, so you call me in. What’s up, slick? Annihilator busy this time?” “You saw to that, if I recall,” she replied, eyes narrowing dangerously. “I just offered him the chance to get away from you. Figured it was just a matter of time before you tried to get him naked.” That comment brought a slow measured response from the other end of the transmission. Every word dripped with barely-suppressed hostility and a promise of imminent death that had intimidated more than one powerful booster. “Your assignment is to assist him in whatever way he sees fit. Do your job.” Drake locked gazes with her, unwilling to succumb to her fury. The presence of the computer separated him from the pheromones her Emerged system generated, making it possible to remain looking at her so. “I don’t blink, by the way,” he said after a full minute. “Not unless I want to.” Rather than respond vocally, Hart snapped off the transmission. The screen where she had been displayed faded to a neutral grey in color. “This just blows,” Drake muttered. “Rain check on the parade, huh?” Soundstage asked from her position behind the computer screen. Her voice, despite being mechanically-altered, still conveyed more than a measure of sorrow at the thought. * * * * *
-February 13- Saul Rosenberg maintained a tight schedule. Rain, snow, sleet, sunshine, holiday or weekend, none of them changed his pattern. Today would be no different. It had not for the past decades. Awakened at one-thirty in the morning by the buzzing of his alarm clock, he rose from bed, padded into the tiny kitchen of his cramped apartment, and started a pot of coffee. Once the brewing had begun, he showered, shaved, and dressed. He had a pattern for that as well: socks, underwear, slacks, shirt, shoes. Once finished with that, he would help himself to a cup of coffee and take five minutes to relax before his day really began. Out the door by two, and with a Thermos of coffee to warm him at work, he bicycled the four blocks to the small shanty of a newsstand on the corner of Oak and Harris streets. By two thirty it was open and lit with a soft glow of electric lamps. Within fifteen minutes the dailies would arrive, and Saul was always ready in advance. When the trucks pulled up, he greeted them with the usual high spirits and jovial banter. His knife, handles worn smooth from years of use, split the bindings around the early edition of the Times, and the headlines there brought back bittersweet memories of years long gone. “LADY JUSTICE DAY” read the headline, as it always did on this day. Saul smiled and raised his eyes to the heavens as if seeking a long-lost friend. “We loved you,” he whispered to the night sky before returning to the task at hand. Saul continued to stack his papers as his mind flashed back those twenty-plus years. The turmoil in the streets as it was announced that Lady Justice had been assassinated. The international manhunt that ensued, with geneboosters from every country going on a rampage of interrogations in an attempt to find the unknown killer. The declarations of martial law that had brought the country to a near-standstill. Finally, the tapering off of the violence and the resumption of normalcy that followed, despite the questions that lingered. “Mornin’, Saul!” called a driver, interrupting Saul’s reverie as the youth in the rear of his truck threw out a stack of The Herald. The old man smiled and nodded. “Happy Lady Justice Day!” added the kid in the back of the truck, waving merrily. He wore a lime-green sweatshirt with a cheaply-applied image of Lady justice on the front. The wrinkles, Saul noticed, made her look as she had on that morning they found her in the alley. “Yeah, you too,” he replied automatically. He wondered why, on this day of mourning, people still wished him a happy day. “Twenty-five years and no one to blame,” he muttered to himself as the truck rumbled away. Sniffing back a tear, he grabbed for the stack and continued his routine. As he placed papers on the sale racks, he offered up a silent prayer that the events of that February morning twenty-five years ago would not be forgotten. * * * * *
-February 13- Preparations for the annual Lady Justice Day Parade were underway in full force. Similar parades and gatherings were scheduled for locations around the globe, but none were as meaningful as those of Atlanta, where the body of the Lady had been found. All leave time had been cancelled for the Atlanta Police Department as well as other emergency service agencies. Ambulances and fire trucks staged along the stretch of Peachtree that had been closed between Ponce DeLeon and Tenth. Police officers coordinated with elements of the National Guard to provide security which, as always on this day, was incredibly tight. Officers on horseback and bicycle patrolled the parade route, aided by the dozens of men and women who paced about on foot. Some of those were uniformed and some were not, though all were linked to a central Command Post via closed-cell radio transmitters. Heavy weapons were the rule of the day, and any uniformed officer was carrying either a short automatic rifle or shotgun as their primary arm. Those in plainclothes were packing Uzi and Ingram submachine guns beneath the jackets that both shielded them from the morning chill and concealed their heavy armor. At the head of the parade route, soldiers lounged on the frame of an armored personnel carrier. An identical APC was positioned at the end of the route. Each could carry enough arms and personnel to deal with a situation of violence in mere heartbeats, providing that violence was wrought by civilians and not the geneboosters that inevitably flocked to the event. In anticipation of that contingency, a platoon of US Navy Seals sat in readiness in a location undisclosed to the public, armed to the teeth with the most fearsome of weapons and ready to deploy at a second’s notice. Vendors had been allowed in during the night, each carefully screened and escorted to their allowed spaces, where they began the painstaking but hurried task of assembling their tents and trailers to sell food and souvenirs to the crowds that would soon throng the streets. Soon, the smells of cooking meat and heated sugar drifted to provide a carnival-like atmosphere even in the darkness. For all those present, it looked to be the start of a wonderful day. * * * * *
-February 13- Drake was stretched across two sets of the webbing material that served as seats in the C-130. The vibration of the plane was almost pleasant beneath him, but it did not serve to lessen the dark mood into which Hart’s assignment had placed him. Only one thing could, and he was trying it now. He held the cell phone to his ear as he spoke into it. “Just watch the TV,” he said, lips stretching into a smile. “I’m gonna be up on stage with Patriot.” The answering squeal of delight was so loud it made him jerk the phone away from his ear for a moment until Monster had a chance to calm down a bit. “Are you really?” crowed the voice of his little brother. “Yeah, buddy. I mean it. He asked for me to come help him. You watch the show. I’ll wave at you.” “Will you get Patriot to wave, too?” “Yeah, I’ll get Patriot to wave, too,” Drake promised. Monster cheered again, and Drake endured the volume. “Let me talk to Sala,” he requested after a moment. “Okay. Bye, Francis,” Monster said, and Drake tensed himself for the sound of the call to disconnect. It was almost routine for the younger of the Drakes to hang up prematurely when asked to let someone else speak. When the soft voice of the woman Drake knew was tougher than most pro football players came on the line, it was almost a surprise. “Drake?” “Hey, Sala. Do me a favor and tape today’s broadcast from Atlanta. It’s probably gonna be the only time I’ll be seen with Patriot, and the kid should be able to see it whenever he wants.” “Is that pride I hear?” teased the woman. “You make it to the big leagues and you want me to believe you’re taping it for Chris?” “Actually, I am,” Drake said, his mind flashing back to images of Patriot lying supine on a laboratory table. “Let’s just say I’m not as star-struck as he is. Not any more.” “All right,” she said. “I’ll tape it. You owe me, though. I still am kind of star-struck, and I want an autograph.” Drake grinned widely. “You got it. I’ll sign a napkin for you,” he said, snapping shut the cell and chuckling. * * * * *
-February 13- Saul settled back in his chair, pouring himself a cup of coffee and nodding occasionally to the meager handful of customers who snagged a paper on the way to work. It had been an emotionally exhausting morning as he saw the dozens of headlines about Lady Justice Day. For some reason, it seemed to be affecting him more than ever this year. He reached out to the small bag attached to his bicycle and flipped open the leather case, extracting a Sony WatchMan television that was his only concession to high technology. Even it was five years old. Extending the antenna with only a mild muttered curse as a section of the telescoping tubes caught, he flicked on the power and propped it up where it could easily be seen from his chair. “…coverage from Atlanta, Georgia, where the preparations are being completed for the annual Lady Justice Day parade,” the speaker said in a tinny crackle. As the screen warmed up, it displayed a reporter in a blue windbreaker. He was speaking into a microphone, his face a mask of professional grace even as the wind around him whipped his hair in all directions seemingly at once. “This years featured speaker is the legendary Patriot, who viewers will remember for the battles he fought at Her side. Patriot will be making a speech about the sacrifices Lady Justice made for her country, as well as honoring her position as the first genebooster to ever Emerge.” The screen shifted to a grainy series of images shot in 1963, as the girl that would one day be known as Lady Justice made history. The footage was familiar to most viewers around the world, but was shown again every year on this date. Saul sat back and watched it again as if seeing it for the first time: the horrific collision on Interstate 35 in Dallas, Texas, captured by a news crew from WFAA-TV en route back to their office after shooting a piece on the mayor. The tiny girl pinned beneath the heavy overturned Pontiac, crying out as the massive car crushed the life from her. Men rushing from their cars to help, only to run back screaming in terror as the girl flexed her muscles and lifted the car from her body. The fear in the voice of the reporter as the twelve-year-old bent at the waist and almost effortlessly lifted the wrecked car off the bleeding bodies of her parents, then threw it a hundred feet down the road. “That, ladies and gentlemen, was the very first Emergence,” the reporter said reverently as the camera feed clicked to him once more. He had used the time to smooth his hair, a futile gesture considering the wind. “But it was not the last time we would hear from Lady Justice. Today, we gather here to remember what she represented, and to honor her memory.” The station cut back to the studio shot, and Saul’s aged face wrinkled up in distaste as he recognized the usual insipid morning-show hosts. Both wore black armbands, but they seemed to regard them more as fashion accessories than as a gesture of respect. Their plastic smiles more than overshadowed the seriousness of the day, leaving a sour taste in Saul’s mouth. He took a sip from the coffee cup to cover the flavor. “Hey, Saul. How ya doin’?” greeted a voice from the counter. Saul looked up to see Mick Ashton standing at the front of his kiosk, a copy of the Times in his powerful hand. Only his eyes and blue uniform hat were visible above the paper as he scanned the front page, but Saul had spoken to the police officer nearly every day for the past four years, ever since Ashton had been assigned to walk a beat in the neighborhood. “Mick, I been better,” he replied, wiping a drop of coffee from the corner of his mouth and shuffling over to stand at the counter. He leaned his slight frame against a support pole. “You?” “Ahh, had a fight with Susie last night. Spent the night on the couch. You know how it is.” “Yeah, I remember,” Saul said with a wistful smile. “So what ya think there, Saul? Lady Justice Day and all. Gonna be busy?” the officer asked pointedly. Saul smiled. For years now, Mick had come to Saul to ask how the day would go ever since his training officer had mentioned that the old man had made an off-handed comment about the day ‘feeling wrong’ one day in November of 1995. That day had ended in terror for New York and three other states as the genebooster called Annihilator had gone on a rampage, randomly flying to populated areas and attacking. “Son, it’s Lady Justice Day. Even the crazy boosters play nice today, out of respect for Her.” “Yeah, I guess,” Ashton said, passing over a dollar. He folded the newspaper and tucked it under his left arm. “Hope you’re right,” he added with a wink and a wiggle of his eyebrows that belied his statement. “Don’t you go looking for trouble, Mick Ashton,” warned the old man in a mock-severe tone, waggling his finger sternly. “You might get it.” “You sound like my ma,” Ashton laughed, tipping his hat and whistling a jaunty tune as he walked away. Saul shook his head and smiled again as the cop left. He’s a good kid, Saul thought. He settled back into his chair and turned his attention back to the television as they flashed highlights from some of Lady Justice’s most famous battles. Vision clouded by age and the beginnings of tears, he watched with all the fascination he had shown when the fights had first been broadcast, and he looked at her as she valiantly fought to defend all the things he and everyone else took for granted. Propping his elbows on his thighs, and his chin on his interlaced fingers, he thought back to the days when she flew over the country and made him so proud to be an American. The images danced in his eyes and he felt himself transported through time to the early sixties, reliving the moments as if he were once more seated in his armchair, Abraham and Daniel sprawled in the floor in front of him as they watched them on the massive black-and-white console that dominated the living room. “Truly you were the best of us all,” he whispered as the pictures reflected off his eyes. * * * * *
-February 13- Starbucks was doing brisk business with the crowds of reporters and media affiliates that had jammed the city for the parade. Camera crews and photojournalists milled around in a state of readiness, carrying more hardware than a military platoon, though theirs was of a decidedly less immediately lethal nature. Self-employed stringers, fired up by an excess of caffeine, bragged of the genebooster-filming accomplishments in vain attempts to be recognized by the more successful employees of mass media conglomerates. Not one any of the reporters present took notice of the two men seated at a corner table of the patio, although an interview with either could have made a career. The two looked like normal civilians, and these reporters had absolutely zero interest in the mundane elements of society. At his seat in that particular corner table, Emile DuChamp nursed his latte and waited patiently for his friend to speak, ignoring the childish urge to form snow from the morning humidity and freeze out the reporters. He had already arranged for a heavy northern breeze that effectively drowned out their conversation, and that would be enough for now. Dressed in casual street clothes, Patriot - without any hint of his trademarked mask and costume - sat at the table across from Emile, one hand holding his head as the other lifted yet another cigarette to his lips in bold violation of the tiny plastic ‘No Smoking’ sign on the table. It was, after all, an outdoor café, and there was no reason to worry about the smoke with Emile’s wind carrying it away. He sighed, exhaling smoke through his nose in twin plumes as he did so. Time passed in silence at the table as he smoked. Pursing his lips as he butted the cigarette on the tiled floor beneath his heel, he spoke for the first time since ordering the triple espresso that even now sat cooling before him. “I’m not stupid, Emile. I saw her. It was a warning.” “Of what?” countered the bearded booster, cradling his cup in one hand as he tipped a container of sugar, adding a tiny amount to the brew. “I don’t know. I just know something is coming.” “So you saw her. As I said, this is Her day. You will be making a speech in Her honor. She is on your mind as much as she is my own. It is no wonder—” The remainder of his comments were cut off by a curt reply from Patriot. “Don’t act like it’s nothing!” Patriot ordered, his voice carrying beyond the table despite the breeze. The reporters in the café turned their heads automatically to see what had caused the disturbance. Emile favored them with a raised middle finger and they went back to their own conversations. “I’m - look, I’m sorry,” Patriot said, lowering his voice once more. “I didn’t mean to shout.” “You did not shout,” Emile said with the practiced ease of a diplomat. He flapped a hand to show how easily he dismissed the idea. “All right. Let us say that, for the sake of the discussion, I am believing you. Let us say that you saw her and that is was indeed a warning. What would it be a warning of? This is the one day when boosters all over the world stop their fighting and take a day off to remember the First. What else represents a threat?” “Terrorists. Military action. Alien invaders. Biological warfare.” Patriot ticked items off on his fingers as he spoke. Emile grinned wryly and imitated his friend with his own hand. “Yes, yes. Lawyers, politicians, telemarketers, religious seekers that come and knock on your door, I get it,” he said. “So there are other things out there? How much of a threat to you re they?” “I never figured the threat was to me, Emile. Alicia was a protector of millions. She always fought for the people, not the flag. She was there for them, not me. So why think the threat is directed at me and not them?” “So we say that it is. Even should we know what form this threat will take, which I remind you we most assuredly do not, how would we go about preparing to fight it? We have not been in the game for some time, you and I.” “Considering what I have in mind for today’s speech, I put in a call to HeartBreak yesterday morning,” Patriot declared flatly, as though daring the French booster to respond. “Ordered up some additional assistance, as it were.” “Oh, tell me you did not,” Emile begged, his face going pale. “That bitch owns you, my friend. She will claim from you what she has from so many others.” “Not a chance. Besides, I told her that she owed us, not the other way around.” From pale, Emile blanched all the way to ghostly. “You did not tell her that I was involved, did you?” “I may have mentioned it, yeah. So what?” At that moment, the café fell silent as every single reporter, camera operator, writer and stringer in the place gasped as one. Emile glanced toward the lurking shadow on the patio and put his palm to his forehead, looking at his friend with abject horror as he recognized the source of the shadow. He shook his head sadly and tried to give his best fake smile. “If that is who I think it is, my friend, then you had better place your public relations team on danger money,” he whispered.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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