An exploration of how the world might be different if people with powers had suddenly begun appearing in 1919.
This was inspired by a RPG I was in. I played Aaron, and because of various things missed the last two sessions. I felt there was still a lot of story to tell, at least for him.
So, the big boss was defeated years ago. The other major characters died, or retired, or literally left the planet. What happens to the world, and the few empowered still around from that era?
This is a test of the waters for a new project. It is not part of the Masks series, but inspired by the tabletop RPG I'm currently in. The next post will give some background information.
The Angel of Chicago
Part One: A Model of Civil Disobedience
by
Rodford Edmiston
Crunch had learned to ignore the cameras, which meant the censors for the reality show he was in (which he thought of as his reality show) had a lot more work to do when he was talking. Some - Crunch included - saw this as part of the source of the show's success. As with Jelly's frequent exhibitionism, many people tuned in just in case the censors missed something. However, for this event, here, today, he had been reminded firmly and often that some of the content was going out live and to watch his mouth. That only added to his bad humor, but he minded his manners. As one of the top empowered reality TV show celebrities for more than four years he was a seasoned professional. When he thought to act like it.
The Green Room at the theater hosting the ERTA event was currently very crowded, which had the hosts both concerned and actively working to reduce tensions. Nearly half the people in it were wearing costumes of various styles. As was common when many people are in a small space the air was filled with sounds - from voices, movement and devices - and odors. There was perfume and cologne and deodorant and expensive food and even a touch of pipe tobacco from somewhere. Fortunately, most of both the sounds and scents were pleasant and largely subdued. Even the mood was less boisterous than some might have expected. Crunch had been told by someone that the hosts put scents in the air to help people relax. Which was especially important when some of those people could level a building on a whim.
Crunch roamed the crowded room, meeting and greeting and snacking on the expensive treats laid out by their hosts, fulfilling his role of experienced campaigner. He did tend to talk too much, and occasionally act more friendly with someone than their actual relationship warranted. Some thought he was covering nervousness, but he was actually covering irritation.
After winning the top award four years in a row, he had been told that some people - meaning his bosses - wanted someone new this time. So, he'd been given the job of MC, and was supposed to play up passing the torch to "new talent." Though he and his agent - mostly his agent - had been savvy enough to only do this after renegotiating his contract, giving him a solid five more years on the show. That hadn't been difficult to arrange. So far, he'd been one of the most popular members of the cast for the entire eight years it had been on, and continued to be a favorite of both fans and critics.
Crunch wasn't just aimlessly wandering; he was sizing up the competition, and for far more than this award presentation. Most of those here were from rival shows - even rival networks - various empowered and their handlers. He'd been in serious fights with some of these people, but tonight they were on neutral ground. Also, as the MC he needed to at least look like he was in charge and impartial. He made jokes and dispensed words of encouragement and occasional advice based on his own experience. Even when what he had learned was the wrong lesson.
"How's it goin'?" said Bolter, nervously presenting a camaraderie with the older empowered which Crunch didn't like. The kid hadn't been around long enough to have earned that familiarity, even though he was on the same show as Crunch.
"Oh, just the usual chaos and confusion," said Crunch, with a fake smile and carefully rehearsed mild response. "No need to start worrying until it descends into total panic. Which it probably will about ten minutes to air time."
That was more for the cameras than to calm Bolter. As far as Crunch was concerned the little shit could wet himself on stage and run off crying.
Realizing he was getting worked up again, Crunch took several deep breaths and felt better. Maybe there was something to that pheromone stuff.
Deciding to take a break, he walked out of the Green Room and into the hallway, walking a bit before turning left towards the stage. There, at the end of this second, narrower hall someone had placed mirrors on both walls. This allowed people to make a quick, final check all around before going out. Crunch smiled in satisfaction at his multiple reflections, confirming that his tastefully colorful outfit and hair were perfect, from every viewpoint.
Then, four reflections back, someone leaned out and waved. A pale, androgynous figure with perfectly ridiculous hair, in an outrageously colorful outfit.
* * *
Blackpool didn't like these affairs, his reasons actually including some overlap with the reasons Crunch didn't, despite having a very different attitude in regard to such events. In his case, however, participation was a requirement to maintain his certification as an empowered security professional. Still, he was a professional - in more than one field - and took these shows seriously. He'd never won any of the awards - had never wanted to, had rarely even been eligible - but was there partly for show, partly for the show and partly as extra security.
Just now he was checking the podium where it stood in the wings, ready for deployment. Twice in the show's history someone had pulled a "prank" which involved placing something "dramatic" in the podium. Both times the device had been found. The second time it had been potentially lethal. Satisfied that for now, at least, it was just an empty stand of metal and hardwood, Blackpool headed for the security station.
"Hey, Blackpool," said Daedalus, as the shadowy empowered walked by him. "Come take a look at something."
"What?" said Blackpool, curious, as he moved beside where Daedalus was peeking around the edge of the curtains at the house.
"Look at the back of the theater and tell me if you see something... odd."
He moved aside and Blackpool took his place. The younger man scanned the nearly-full theater, looking for trouble, paying particular attention to the far wall. He noticed something potentially very troubling there.
"Damn," he hissed, quickly letting the curtain close and hurrying away.
"Is that who I think it is?" said Daedalus, at the back of the exiting empowered. He got no answer.
Quickly, Blackpool headed towards the security station in the wings, going around or pushing past multiple people, some of whom called angrily after him in protest. Blackpool ignored them, and went directly to Empowered Agent Sturgis, whom he had worked with before, both on these shows and otherwise.
"Malak is at the rear of the theater," he said, without preamble, while he was still approaching.
"Are you sure?" said Sturgis, startled.
"How many people with thirty-foot wingspans are there?"
"He hates these things!"
"Yes. It's definitely him, though. He's invisible, plastered wings and all against the back wall to keep out of the way. It's definitely him."
"All right," said Sturgis, after a moment of hard thinking. "Are you on good terms with him?"
"Mostly."
"Okay. Go... ask him what his intentions are."
Blackpool nodded. He turned, stepped into a shadow, and stepped back out in a corner at the rear of the theater. Quietly, he moved towards the bewinged man.
"Hello, Blackpool," said Malak, not looking around, eyes not even open, his deep voice quiet.
The crimefighter was not surprised Malak had spotted him; he wasn't being particularly stealthy, and the grey-winged pseudo-angel could analyze ambient sound to detect movement and the presence of objects. That came in useful when flying through the infamous fogs in his home town of Chicago.
"What are you doing here?"
"I have been tracking Mannequin for three days," said Malak. "I lost the trail on the outskirts of New York city, but this is the most likely destination."
"I understand," said Blackpool, nodding. He glanced around. No-one in the audience seemed to have spotted either of them yet. He wanted to keep it that way. "I'll notify security. If Mannequin does cause trouble, please let us handle it."
"No promises," said Malak, his tone serious. "Mannequin needs help, not prison. I also doubt normal security can handle Mannequin; even empowered LEO have difficulty. However, I'll give you first crack. If any of those idiots in the 'reality' programs get involved, though..."
"I understand," said Blackpool, again.
Policy required him to tell Malak firmly to leave here and let the professionals handle things. With a bit of amusement he didn't show, Blackpool realized Malak probably didn't even have a ticket. However, he had a good idea of what Mannequin could do, and realized that despite policy having Malak standing by to help was probably a good thing. Despite the winged man's official status.
Malak was a rogue; had been for decades. However, the government tolerated him, partly because he could handle people like Mannequin. Sometimes through sheer force of personality. That charisma being another reason he was allowed to act without official supervision, despite multiple laws prohibiting the empowered from using their powers outside of government oversight.
Blackpool again stepped into the shadows and back out at the security station... and into chaos.
"Damn it, Crunch!" one of the show's managers was yelling at the huge man. "You put your fist right through the wall! An expensive mirror broken, glass to clean up, we're just lucky the audience didn't hear it! Just because you've got a case of nerves!"
Blackpool was glad he was already at the security station. The hallway was crowded with costumed figures, uniformed security, plainclothes Empowered Agency personnel and theater staff. Some were frightened, some were amused, some were confused, but the most worrying were those who seemed eager. Too many empowered enjoyed brawling, and all the tournaments and staged fights the government and networks arranged weren't enough for them.
"I know what I saw!" yelled Crunch, whirling around, his clenched fists in ready position. People who were already giving the large empowered a wide berth reflexively crowded back against those a bit further away.
"Mannequin," said Blackpool.
There was a startled silence.
"Yes! In the mirror!"
"Malak warned me Mannequin might be targeting the ceremony."
"Oh, great," said Crunch, raising his fists and eyes to the heavens as he roared. "Two of those freaks here!"
Blackpool turned towards agent Sturgis.
"Notify security. Put everyone on alert. I mean everyone!"
Meanwhile, the show must go on. Crunch's handlers got him calmed. There were no other reports of Mannequin, though that meant nothing. Like many empowered, Mannequin generally went unnoticed until taking blatant action.
With the audience none the wiser the preparations continued. The network connections were confirmed, cameras and microphones checked, the theater's PA system tested. All was ready.
The lights in the auditorium went down, and those on the stage came up. The audience quieted. There was a palpable air of anticipation. The curtain rose on the opening act, which consisted of a song and dance man backed by shapely women in costumes far more revealing than anything worn by licensed empowered. The number concluded and the curtain lowered. A moment later it rose again; now the podium for the Master of Ceremonies was front and center. There was a drumroll. An unseen announcer spoke.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present the thirteenth annual Empowered Reality Television Awards!"
Applause and cheers broke out as the band struck up the lightweight if energetic theme of the show.
"Our hose tonight is the legendary Cruncher!"
Few seemed to notice the two small mistakes in that announcement. A spotlight hit stage right. Waving and smiling, Crunch strolled out, his dress cape streaming behind him, his outfit glittering, the spotlight following.
The band resumed playing. The number was now supposed to be Crunch's theme. However, what came out was "The Stripper." People started tittering. Crunch made it all the way to the podium before he seemed to notice. He stood there, looking confused as the song played out.
"Yes, vaudeville has come a long way since the era of the classic stripper," said the voice, now taking on parodic tone. "Today's performers prostitute themselves in entirely new ways!"
"Mannequin!" screamed Crunch, the podium shattering under his hands. "I'll rip off your fucking head and stuff it up your scrawny ass!!!"
He looked around frantically, trying to find his quarry. Crunch heard someone backstage yelling something about the production booth, which he recalled was high up at the rear of the auditorium. Swerving his gaze to the windows up there, he saw activity. He had no way of knowing whether it was normal operations or not, but threw himself at the booth anyway.
* * *
"The director's booth isn't responding!" yelled Sturgis.
"I'm on it," said Blackpool, lunging for a shadow.
He came out in the booth, and immediately stopped breathing. Because everyone there was unconscious. Mannequin sometimes used a mostly harmless anesthetic gas, so he had a good idea why the men and women in the booth were out. The door to the hallway - normally locked and guarded - was open, the guard nowhere to be seen. Blackpool lunged out of the booth, still not breathing.
He hadn't gone far when he heard what sounded like an explosion behind him. Glancing back he saw Crunch had crashed through the heavy windows into the small space Blackpool had just vacated. Blackpool winced, and hoped the idiot hadn't killed anyone.
Returning his gaze to the direction he was running, Blackpool saw a fleeing figure. The person at first looked like one of the theater guards, but the uniform they were wearing shifted into the colors of Mannequin's outfit. Deciding it was safe to breathe again, Blackpool restarted and poured on the speed.
Mannequin looked back, grinned and made Curly Howard noises. Then began pulling away. Blackpool began searching for a shadow connection, in vain. However, ahead of Mannequin a gray wall swept across the corridor, blocking it. As the odd empowered slid to a frantic stop, another gray wall cut off the his retreat; the portion of the hallway between Blackpool and Mannequin.
Blackpool likewise stopped. The grey barricade of feathers came through the wall on the left, completely blocked the narrow hall and went out through the wall to the right. Blackpool had seen this before, and couldn't help but marvel at the control Malak had to make solid just the portions of his wings actually in the open, while keeping the rest of himself dematerialized.
Mannequin also knew what this was, and was starting to worry. A bit.
* * *
Back in the booth Crunch was just realizing that none of the people there were moving, even though some were obviously bleeding.
"Mannequin!" he shouted, certain the freak had murdered them.
He took a deep breath, the better to curse his prey, and lunged for the door. Crunch started feeling a bit dizzy as he ran, but ignored the sensation, too angry to be analytical.
Crunch came upon Blackpool, standing before a strange, grey barrier.
"Where is he?!"
Blackpool quickly evaluated the situation and decided to minimize the chance for trouble.
"Assuming you mean Mannequin, gone."
Unfortunately, Crunch was determined to cause trouble. With a howl of rage he slammed his fist against the feathery wall.
* * *
The grey barriers shifted, repositioning as the central part of Malak's body came through the wall. Mannequin started to say something.
"BE STILL."
Mannequin couldn't move, couldn't speak!
"Georgia, you really need to stop doing this," said Malak, in a sad tone, his voice now its normal deep, resonant baritone. "Not for my sake. Not for the sake of the innocent bystanders. Not even for the sake of those idiots in the ceremony. For your sake."
"I know," said Mannequin, sighing, that paralysis fading. "If I stop, though, who will point out the follies of the fools?"
Malak started to say something, but instead winced at a solid thump from the other side of his right wing.
"The natives are getting restless. Will you come with me to get help?"
Mannequin hesitated. There was another thump, and another wince.
"Last chance."
"Okay!" said Mannequin, quickly. "Yes, I'll go with you!"
"Excellent."
Malak curled his wings in and around himself and Mannequin, and the pair vanished.
"Hah! Got that done!" shouted Crunch, as the grey barricade curled up and disappeared, leaving only a few stray feathers he had knocked loose to float to the floor. "Now, where's Mannequin?!"
"Gone, like I said," said Blackpool, relieved to see that was actually true.
Crunch snarled, and marched down the corridor, looking in vain for Mannequin.
On the roof of the theater a strange apparition materialized. Malak opened his wings and let his passenger out. He looked curiously at the strange figure as Mannequin recovered from the disorientation their trip had produced.
"Wow. You could sell tickets for that ride."
"Are you serious about getting help, or did you just say that to get out of there?"
"I..." Mannequin swallowed, the lack of Adam's Apple quite noticeable. Mannequin's head dropped. "I want help. I can't stop! I manage to direct the compulsions in ways that are harmless, but it's getting harder and harder. Sometimes I want to hurt people!"
"All right," said Malak, satisfied, his tone now gentler. "I'll take you to a place which was created to help empowered with problems."
He grimaced, and looked down at the roof. Perhaps seeing through it, if only in his mind's eye. He flexed his right wing.
"Oh, and you're not alone in sometimes wanting to hurt certain people. Now, let's get you to the clinic."
"You're not taking me to your village?" said Mannequin, disappointed.
"That's for ordinary people who need help, and those - normal and empowered - who want to help them," said Malak, firmly. He relented, smiling a bit. "Maybe when you're better you can come to visit. Sanctuary is a nice place, and I'm not saying that just because I helped build it."
"I think I'd like that," said Mannequin, quietly.
"Now, let's get out of here before someone spots us."
He gathered the slim figure in his arms, spread his wings and flew into the night. Once safely high enough the winged shape suddenly burred to the west, and was gone.
* * *
Later, approaching Midnight despite being a time zone to the west of New York, Malak finally reached his home. He slowed to normal flying speed well above the town and spiraled down, at the last moment pulling up, cupping his wings and stalling to a stop with his sandaled feet just off the ground. Despite the late hour there were several people waiting for Malak, though they did not crowd him. Given the room his wings needed, that would have been folly. Some of those waiting had reports and questions about operations of the town; some just wanted to see him, to reassure themselves he had returned and was there for them.
Malak dealt with each group appropriately - in most of the cases putting off decisions about people or equipment or regulations until he could get more data the next day - and bid them all a pleasant good night.
His home - a gift from the citizens more that thirty years before - was modest, but the main entrance was not. The double doors rose high and spread wide to accommodate his wings. Something more symbolic than practical, as were the unusually high ceilings of the entrance hallway and two biggest rooms inside. That symbolism being demonstrated by Malak shifting to his base form once he was alone. The wings retracted, the golden robes became jeans and a flannel shirt, the sandals became athletic shoes. Aaron Labelle sighed, glanced at the mail his assistant had left on the dining room table, and decided to leave all that for tomorrow.
As he walked slowly through his home, making sure it was secure for the night, he noted that it needed cleaning. There was dust on some of the shelves, a bit of debris in a corner of the kitchen, some of the trash was going sour... He made a mental note to find a new housekeeper. The previous one had married and moved out of state over a month ago, and he wasn't able to keep up on his own. That was a success for the town, but a defeat for cleanliness. Given the keenness of his senses that also meant a defeat for him.
A quick shower, a quick meal, and he prepared for bed.
The bed, itself, was another gift, and also huge, taking up most of the floor space in the bedroom. It was the same custom bed and custom mattress which had come with the house. It seemed too large, these days, as it had for all of the nearly twenty years since his wife had died.
Arielle is supposed to visit in a few days, thought Aaron, as he drifted off to sleep. The place will feel more homey then.
This excerpt - from a fictional book by his fictional daughter - provides a bit of background for the character of Malak and his world.
Rodford Edmiston
Excerpt from a book published in 1970, written by Arielle (the Lioness) Labelle.
My Father Has Wings
by
Arielle Labelle
Don't call Aaron Labelle an angel. He has never claimed to be one. Though he has occasionally joked that he is an angel in training. What he does claim is that he was given his abilities by an angel. Something which cannot be verified, but which he devoutly believes, and acts in accordance to.
My mother is nearly as much of a saintly figure as my father. She claims Aaron is a divine madman, and there is much to back this viewpoint. Certainly, it would take someone with an unusual mindset to not try and parlay looking so much like a creature from Christian and Hebrew folklore (and some others, as well) into fame, glory and wealth. My father, though, was very careful not only to avoid that trap, but to deny the ambitions of anyone who tried to make use of him in such a way.
My father is the most caring person I have ever known. Which may be why his empowerment manifested in the way it did. Or maybe he simply wanted to be better, to lose the anger which too often accompanied his passion for helping others early on, and his transformation shaped his character into what we see today. I can testify personally to the comforting value of being cradled in his warm, soft, grey wings. I can almost understand the people who collect his feathers.
Aaron is the son of a Louisiana Cajun and a French immigrant. He was born in July, 1895 in Baton Rouge. Aaron was brought up mostly in that city but with considerable time spent with cousins in the bayou. He went to a proper school, but he also learned the ways of the woods and the swamp. English was his first language but not by much. His mother - who came to the US from France when she was just 16 - was a librarian and a born story teller and romantic. Among the tales she filled his head with were fables of fantastic creatures, including angels. His father taught high school English. He was a soldier in the Spanish American War and also loved stories, especially those of heroic warriors.
Note that Aaron has some Native American ancestors. A few of whom were enslaved by the French and Spanish before they started the mass importation of slaves from Africa. As well, some of his French Canadian ancestors were brought to Louisiana against their wills as indentured servants. He gets his light complexion from his mother. When he was young some of his cousins called him "Leblanc" because he was so much lighter than them.
Aaron was convinced to participate early in the Great War by his mother, with his father also encouraging Aaron to "go and be a man." Along with many other American volunteers he went to France well before the United States formally joined the conflict. Being fluent in French (though with what most French natives consider an atrocious accent) he was placed in a French unit on the front line. Within weeks - due to his intelligence and education - he was transferred to a nearby artillery unit, a group of French 75s. Part of the reason for his reassignment was that the French unit needed someone to be their liaison with the British command. However, the Brits couldn't understand him (or that's what they said) any better than the French could. Aaron eventually wound up doing more technical jobs. He had already proved himself in battle in the trenches, and continued to do so during several attacks by the Germans against the artillery battery where he was stationed.
In July of 1915 he was seriously injured in an counter battery artillery barrage. A barrage which started with gas shells. Supposedly this gas was chlorine, and intended to prevent the French battery from responding to the attack. From the symptoms of the survivors the gas was something very much other than chlorine, but the true nature was not revealed by the Germans. Whatever it might have actually been is apparently lost to time. The explosive shells which followed nearly put paid to what was left of the unit after the gas did its work.
That night, in the French military hospital where the survivors were taken, Aaron dreamed an angel came to him. (From his descriptions, this was an Arel, or White Wing, one of the Erelim.) Weeping but saying nothing, she held out a spear in one hand and a cup in the other, obviously expecting him to make a choice. However, before he could do this a nurse shook him awake to give him some medicine.
Aaron received a medical discharge and returned to the US with a medal and a scar on his head. His recovery was long and difficult and not aided by the fact that he was disillusioned in many ways. As were many others, he was disgusted by the wastage of trench warfare. The kings and magnates and their military commanders seemed to have no concern for how many died trying to obey their incompetent whims. He also felt a sense of longing, of something incomplete in his life. He followed the news of the war, feeling increasingly disappointed and unsettled. He began paying more attention to the unfair treatment of lower class people by the upper classes in civilian life as well as the military. He became obsessed with the acts committed against the lower classes on the parts of both governments and businesses. There wasn't a lot he could do, especially since he was still recovering, so Aaron decided to move on. He got a good job and tried resuming his relationship with his fiance, though unsuccessfully. The discontent deep in his soul drove her away, along with most of his family.
After the war finally ended he tried to feel optimistic, and convince himself things were getting better. It didn't work; he continued to feel out of place, that there was something deeply wrong with the world. As well as with himself. He therefore decided to travel, to see the country and maybe find himself. Aaron left his home town of Baton Rouge and wandered for a couple of years. (When I asked about this time in his life in preparation for writing this book, he just smiled and said "I was busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train, feeling near as faded as my jeans. The only person who came to see me off was my young cousin Bobby. He was one of the singing McGees.") The only remnants of his military adventure in France which he took with him was the Longines wrist chronograph he had been issued as an Artillery Corps lieutenant, a set of Jules Vern's classic stories in the original French, and his scars.
First he went north, and found various jobs in Scranton and other industrial towns. The treatment of workers there dismayed him, so he shipped out on a freighter. He went through the Panama Canal and saw the great redwood trees of the West Coast before heading east again. Finally, he arrived in Chicago to try for a new start.
In 1919 he was on strike at the Chicago packing plant where he worked when a goon squad organized by the Pinkertons attacked. "I survived the Great War and the gas there, but the 'smoke grenades' the Pinks used nearly finished me. While I was on all fours, retching and trying to see, someone hit me on the head. Probably with a rifle butt."
Aaron and many others were taken to a prison infirmary. That night he had the same dream. This time he was able to complete his choice. Realizing that men needed to strive for peace while being prepared to fight, he took both the spear and the cup. The silent, weeping angel smiled and faded away, nodding.
When Aaron awoke in the prison infirmary the next day he was completely healed. He also felt a new clarity of thought and had a new sense of purpose to his life. After a few days he was released with a warning from the judge but no charges filed. Then - completely unrepentant - he left to begin his work. As part of this he became a volunteer with Catholic Relief Services, specializing in helping those victimized by their employers. He soon became much more.
Though my father was physically healed - and soon learned to transform into an angelic form - along with the bad attitude he had acquired, the process of healing had wiped away much of the knowledge he had gained in the military. He remembered - still remembers - the events of his service, but lost the details of the skills. Some of this later came back to him, such as his knowledge of Morse code.
In compensation, he now learned much more easily and fully than before. He began picking up languages from the people he helped.
Many people have worked on timelines of appearances of supposedly empowered people through history, some even tracing the phenomenon back to myth and legend. However, before Haymarket there are only a handful of reliably documented events which might - might - represent the actions of someone we now consider empowered. Yet those few who gained powers among those who were gassed there remain distinct in history, the beginning of something new in the world. While the details of what was used on the strikers were soon deliberately destroyed to reduce the chance of prosecution, the formula was known in general. There followed multiple attempts - which were generally lethal - to deliberately empower people.
Most of the early empowered either did not try to keep secret who they really were, or tried and failed, or tried and soon gave up. My father, due to his ability to transform (or "angel up" as he puts it) succeeded in keeping his powers separate from his civilian life until the late Forties. Even then, the exposure came as part of his protest against the post-War registration program. "I saved thousands of lives, helped defeat the Nazis and keep the Soviet Union in check and you want to know where to send my income tax bill? Well, here's where. Good luck collecting. I don't have an income."
Which brings me to the peculiarity of my father's finances. From when he awoke from that second head injury until shortly after he married my mother he refused a salary for his work. He lived on food and tips from the people he helped - and he only took those if they could afford them - plus occasional meals at charity kitchens. He slept in the homes of those he helped - often on the floor - or at Church housing. All this long before the fall of the Market in 1929. People today don't seem to realize that the main thing the Great Depression did was make more people suffer the same hardships as the poorest always have.
He did start accepting a salary after he married, in 1921. Mother earned a good income as an accountant - in part due to Father asking a business friend to make sure she was paid what she was worth, rather than getting less than what a man could earn on the same job. Once they were married and together moved into a larger apartment, my father started taking pay for his work helping people. Though he still rarely used any of that money for himself, instead using it to support our household.
That much was a matter of public record for decades. What wasn't was his activities as Malak. On his own and joined with other empowered, he fought against both government and business corruption and those empowered who yielded to temptation. Aaron had no objection to people with powers using them to earn a living - though he frequently criticized those with powers who run for office, seeing that as unfair - but he felt that one of the reasons he had been given his powers was to defend those without them from those with them. They were just one more group who could victimize the less fortunate.
After I was born in 1923 Aaron spent less and less time as Malak. Especially after October of 1929. However, as my brothers and I became better able to care for ourselves he began resuming that work. Then came the Second World War.
Even today people underestimate my father's proficiency at combat. Yes, he can fight. Dear Lord, can he fight. More than one physically potent empowered who thought him- or herself unbeatable has gone down before strikes from Aaron's mighty wings or fallen to the bite of his flaming spear. However, during and following WWII his emphasis - as always - was on helping those in need. Thousands of refugees and death camp prisoners owed their lives and freedom to my father.
Unfortunately, while Malak is mighty, he is mortal. Despite all he and those with him could do, millions died or were permanently marked by the privations of the war. Something which haunts him to this day.
Today, despite the effort of governments to control and contain the empowered, my father continues to champion the cause of the weak against the strong, However, he works within the system when he can. He believes in the advice to render unto Caesar, and advises other activists to do the same. He likes to follow that quote with a calm but firm reminder that even Caesar will fall without the support of the masses.
Oh, and it's just a myth that my father is afraid of ornithologists. That was a joke he told decades ago which some people still take seriously.
The Angel of Chicago
Part Two: Fact Finding
by
Rodford Edmiston
Melody Gundersen scowled as her boss, Carl Gadding, entered. She wasn't hung over, thanks to the marvels of modern medicine, but she was short on sleep and caffeine was contraindicated for the hangover cure she'd taken. She was actually out of it enough she needed a moment to realize he was carrying an old-fashioned print book; what they called a hardback, she remembered, after a moment more.
"Did you catch the awards show on the 3V last night?"
"Uh, no," she said, wondering what awards show he meant. "You know I don't watch those things."
"The Empowered Reality Television Awards," he said, helpfully. She had worked for him quite a while. Long enough for Mr. Gadding to know that and a great deal more about her.
"Ugh, no," said Melody, now not bothering to hide her revulsion. "I really don't watch those."
"Well, supposedly, Malak and Mannequin and a few of the show's participants got into a knockdown, drag out. The biggest name involved being Crunch."
"And...?" she said, knowing he wasn't here just to gossip.
He leaned over he desk, smiling in a predatory fashion as he continued more quietly.
"There are no arrest reports. There are injury reports, but they're all in Crunch's name and he's been severely fined for being careless. No details. However, what happened to Malak and Mannequin is unknown. There are rumors that the former is back at his little cult village and the latter is in a rehab clinic. I want you to confirm yes or no for both but that's not your main assignment - I have other reporters working on that. I want you to do what you do best: background."
Melody nodded, as what her boss was saying sank in.
"Yeah. A supposed big brawl between empowered with few injuries and no arrests? Especially with Mannequin and Malak involved? Something's going on. I'll get right on it."
"This might give you a head start," said Mr. Gadding, handing her the book.
"'My Father Has Wings' by Arielle Labelle," she read on the cover.
"The daughter of Malak," her boss explained.
"Hang on; I thought empowered couldn't have kids."
"A myth. Some of their kids are even empowered without being activated. You could include some info on that, too."
"Okay," said Melody, in a thoughtful tone.
She started work even as he left her office. Her boss knew how to motivate her. Melody had a curious mind and loved to share what she learned. For now she put the book aside and used something more modern. The CRT terminal on her desk had a fine texture display suitable for viewing images and an outside connection, which included access to several libraries. A perquisite of working at a major newspaper.
She connected to the New York Public Library system and made a carefully worded request for general information on empowered. After a few moments, the system offered a suggested catalog. She selected a document to view, a college-level text. At her request, automated systems at the archives of the Library set to work. The specific roll of microfilm was found, moved to a reader and loaded. The image was then presented to a fine texture video camera, and it relayed that to her screen. The whole process took less than ten minutes from request to the first image appearing. While waiting she started jotting down her initial thoughts on what would be in her article. Or articles...
Melody skimmed through the roll, selected a few pages - mostly tables and graphs - and requested they be printed and delivered to her office. The photostats should be there by the next afternoon. All payments for those services were made through her account at the paper.
Next, she went back to the general catalog and entered a more detailed request. She hoped this would find what she was looking for without her having to manually search through the catalog and sample multiple rolls. As she had expected, though, the search algorithms stumbled repeatedly. Not least because so much of what was available was not fully or even accurately cataloged. Skilled archivists were rare and expensive, and volunteers and graduate students could only do so much. Still, Melody found enough material - including from a few microfilmed recent periodicals - to fill her work day without having to access the physical books in the archives. That would have been much slower, and more expensive, given the persistent problems still plaguing the selsyns which handled the physical documents. Those devices sometimes even damaged what they were handling. That was why each microfilm roll, microfiche card and aperture card in the accessible archives was a copy of a master. So, forget about trying to view actual newspapers or unprocessed periodicals and textbooks this way. It would actually be quicker - and cheaper - to go to the library herself. Or send a flunky to pick up something she reserved.
Newspapers were almost universally copied to microfilm these days, usually at the printer. Magazines were only slightly less routinely photographed. Textbooks were generally only copied if they were thought to have some popular demand. Fiction books and magazines were almost entirely available only through chips. Unfortunately, the immediate and extensive coverage of nonfiction materials had only begun about twenty years previously; finding accessible microfilm of anything older was more problematic. Of course, the New York Glory - where she worked - besides its own incomplete microfilm archives had an extensive morgue of actual, physical papers going back over a century, but only for her company's publications and those of its predecessors. She would check that resource another day. Melody already had plenty to start her work.
For example, it turned out Malak was older than she had thought. He was, in fact, a member of the first large group of empowered to be well documented. While there might have been some empowered people before the event which caused that batch, those were all officially "unverified."
There were also more empowered in the world than she had thought. In the US, as expected, they were divided into registered and rogue, with most of the extras she hadn't known about actually being rogues. Melody was astounded to learn that more empowered refused to register than complied! Yet almost none of them were ever prosecuted.
This left her wondering about something not explicitly stated in any of the official records or approved analyses of same. How many empowered were out there who were not only unregistered but unknown to the government?
* * *
Melody had planned to just skim her boss' book during her solitary supper that evening. However, she found it interesting enough she finished it that night before bed. Fortunately it wasn't very long. She actually got to bed a little early. She liked the book well enough, in fact, that before leaving for work the next morning she placed a phone order for a chip of the text, to be delivered to her office. Only to be told it was not available. From what she could learn over the phone, there had only been the one edition.
* * *
"I'm surprised they told you that much," said Mr. Gadding, when Melody returned his book the next day. "I have a feeling the authorities would rather it had never have been published at all. It humanizes some of the empowered too much for official tastes."
"It certainly gave me a different viewpoint on some of them," said Melody. "Though I'm not sure we could call Malak completely human, at least these days. Even his daughter seems... a bit strange."
"Growing up with a father like that might explain her odd perceptions on life," said Mr. Gadding, nodding. "Moving on, do you have an angle for the article, yet?"
"Maybe enough for more than one," said Melody. "Despite all the warnings about how empowered need to be strictly regulated, the majority are simply people wanting to live their lives. In fact, most of the troublemakers seem to be registered. They're mainly among those used for entertainment."
"That's a good angle," said her boss, nodding. "You can pursue that. However, I want you to put your main focus on those involved in that altercation."
"Roger," said Melody, with a smile and mock salute. "I found out just this morning that Arielle Labelle will be actually in town in a few days, working a job. I'm trying to arrange a meeting for an interview."
"If she'll give it," said Mr. Gadding, sounding doubtful. "After a brief spurt of publicity following the publication of her book she generally keeps a low profile. I don't even know what she does for a living."
"She's a contractor," said Melody, surprising him. "She gets hired to troubleshoot problems of a wide variety. Apparently, she's some sort of super genius with a photographic memory. Give her a few days and she can study a problem and usually come up with a good solution. She describes her work as 'knowing where to apply the hammer.'"
"Well, maybe if you get an interview she can provide some insights into the matter at the awards show."
* * *
Melody got her interview, just a few days later. The only condition was that she meet Arielle Labelle at a particular restaurant for lunch. The same afternoon that the empowered woman finally replied to the reporter's queries. Which meant Melody had to rush to get ready. Among other preparations, she arranged to take an aircab, since the restaurant was well over half an hour away by traditional cab.
She reached the curb just as her ride was landing. She was relieved to see that at least the aircab was a late-model StrattoMaster, and not something a quarter of a century old. The flying cabs were so expensive that they were usually updated rather than replaced. Only they still were old aircabs. The door opened as she approached, and the car spoke as she entered.
"Good after noon, Dr. Gundersen," said the cab, in its stilted voice.
"Not Doctor, and it's still morning," said Melody, as she made sure to securely fasten the safety harness. "Wait a minute; who do you think I am?"
"You are Doctor Li Song Gundersen."
"No! I am Melody Gundersen, reporter!"
"That identification does not correspond with any in my memory. Please provide your National Identification Number."
Melody suppressed a snarl, and carefully recited her NIN.
"Welcome, Miss Gundersen. Where do you wish to go?"
She gave the name of the restaurant where Arielle Labelle had agreed to meet her, made the cab recite it back, then gave it the go-ahead. It waited for a gap in traffic, then lurched abruptly into the air.
As she rearranged herself and her clothing, Melody wished - not for the first time - that these things had real drivers. However, after a few drastic accidents had convinced the powers that be that ordinary people could not safely control flying cars Congress had mandated that they all be automated. No human was allowed to control one, not even someone with a pilot's license. Of course, there were loopholes for politicians and the wealthy. Their flying limousines were all piloted. Naturally, they had proved safer than the automated flying cars.
Minutes later Melody's ride settled onto the heliport landing pad with a thump. She paid and quickly exited. At least the automated cabbies didn't get a tip. One hurried trip to the elevator and short, leisurely ride down to the rotating restaurant later, and she was at the reception desk. She told the man who she was there to meet; he nodded and motioned a waiter over. He, in turn, motioned for her to follow him. Neither man said anything beyond a perfunctory greeting. Melody and her escort went to an upper level, on the outer ring, where there was a magnificent view of the city. However, the city wasn't the only magnificent thing on view.
Labelle was impossible to miss. Like her father, she looked far younger than her age. Something which Melody had been surprised to learn was not uncommon with empowered. Also like her father, she was striking, and not just because of her appearance. She exuded charisma like an exotic perfume. Her appearance was quite different from her father's, primarily due to not having wings. Instead, she was a tall, striking woman with bronze skin and a leonine mane of hair.
Female lions don't have manes, Melody reminded herself firmly. She thanked the waiter and completed the last bit of the journey on her own. She had the feeling the waiter was glad for that.
Melody wasn't surprised she was impressed by Labelle; her reading had warned her that the woman shared her father's force of personality. However, this expected sensation was accompanied by an unaccustomed flush of arousal. Melody was distracted enough by this that she forgot to watch out for a robot busboy, and it nearly ran over her foot.
Scowling at the machine, Melody backed away enough to give it clear passage. When she resumed her course she noticed Arielle watching her. Smiling just a bit. Now even more flustered, Melody gritted her teeth, took a deep breath and walked boldly to the table. She extended her hand.
"Miss Labelle? I'm Melody Gundersen, with the New York Glory."
"Of course you are," said the woman, returning her grip with an amused smile. Her voice was deep and resonant, and exquisitely feminine. "Please, call me Arielle."
"I am very pleased you could meet me," said Melody, as she sat, placing her large handbag on the chair beside her. "If you don't mind, could I get some background information before we order?"
"Considering how slowly the waiters here move, you should have plenty of time," said Arielle, dryly. "Go ahead."
Melody pulled several things out of her purse to get to her notepad and pen, leaving them on the table. One of those was her electronic document reader. It was already set to record sound, and she surreptitiously activated that function as she maneuvered the items.
"All right," she said, smiling, as she opened the notepad and readied her pen. "Let's begin."
The Angel of Chicago
Part Four: Revelations
by
Rodford Edmiston
Most of the preliminaries were simply Melody verifying some of what she had read about Arielle. Who seemed both surprised and pleased the reporter had read her book. There really wasn't time for more than that, though. Despite her comment about the service, the waiter arrived to take their orders shortly after Melody sat.
Melody tried to convince the other woman to let her put the bill on her expense account, but Arielle firmly stated she would pay. They wound up compromising: Each would pay for the other's lunch.
Melody was tempted to order the most expensive item on the menu, but she actually wasn't very hungry. She settled for a tuna sandwich plate. Arielle had a Cobb salad plate.
They spoke little during the actual meal, mainly pleasantries. Melody found herself persistently distracted by Arielle. She hadn't been so struck by a woman since her college days. Once they started on desert, though, they began talking.
"You seem to be in good physical condition," said Arielle.
"Reporters run a lot," said Melody. She realized she was blushing. At least that got a laugh.
"Your request for an interview said you wanted insight into my father's activities at the awards show."
"That, and what you might be able to tell me about why any of that happened."
"Mannequin was physically and mentally changed by the empowerment," said Arielle. "As my father says, Mannequin needs help, not prison. Of course, my dad says that about many people. For Mannequin that's especially appropriate, though."
"Why do some people keep avoiding pronouns when talking about Mannequin?"
"We think - though there's no confirmation - that Mannequin was originally a woman named Georgia Jones. While that could be just another red herring, Mannequin does answer to that name. Empowerment left Mannequin ungendered. Completely neuter. Saying 'it' doesn't seem... polite. I do know that Mannequin's voice sounds like a woman imitating a drag queen. Anyway, Mannequin's abilities include a form of reality alteration, so Mannequin can actually take on other forms temporarily. Though this apparently doesn't include a permanent change to one gender or the other; or maybe Mannequin just doesn't want to be either gender. There's also this attitude that everything is a farce, and that we must embrace that. As part of which, Mannequin keeps pulling pranks which show up the folly of others."
"Well, the Empowered Reality Television Awards are pretty much the height of folly," said Melody. "Oh, and I thought that well before the attack."
They talked for nearly an hour. Melody didn't try for any direct questions about where Malak or Mannequin were, but she did ask why the authorities hadn't charged either of them.
"I think they're just glad to have Mannequin out of their hair for a while," said Arielle. "The worst of the actual damage was caused by Crunch, and that was broken glass and some cuts to bystanders. Also, the few times Mannequin has been tried an insanity defense was used successfully."
There a long moment of quiet after that. The empowered woman took advantage to give Melody a long, evaluating look.
"There are many other questions you should be asking me," she said, finally. "To be fair, these are about things which my experience have made obvious to me, but which few others even notice."
"Such as?" said Melody, actually enjoying the scrutiny.
"Such as why technology in the world has been held back."
"I'm not sure..."
"That electronic book you're using, for example, has more computing power than any of the mainframes used for accounting by big businesses. However, there's several laws prohibiting the use of that technology for anything except reading documents on a portable device. Though I note you're using it for more."
"Wait; that's illegal?!" said Melody, skipping over how someone with documented heightened senses had seen through her pretense with the device.
"Oh, yes. The reasoning is that the type of circuitry and instructions used on those could supposedly only be developed by someone empowered or someone using their work. The federal government got so fed up with people trying to get exemptions that they finally passed a law prohibiting news media - including technical magazines - from mentioning the prohibition. Which means that young developers keep getting arrested for violating a law they aren't allowed to know about!"
"Whoah..." said Melody, shocked. "I knew there were occasional stories about..."
"They're more than occasional," said Arielle, sourly. She sighed, stretched, looked around the restaurant and smiled. "You have to wonder if their disapproval comes from my appearance, or the fact that we're obviously attracted to each other..."
"'Obviously'?" said Melody, both startled and encouraged.
Arielle smiled.
"Well, obvious to me."
She casually reached out and drew the tip of her finger along the back of Melody's hand. Causing the reporter to shiver and give a little gasp.
"I'm free for the rest of the afternoon. If... you'd like to show me around your town."
* * *
Melody stirred, yawned, opened her eyes and gave a little squeal of pure alarm.
"Are you all right?" said Arielle, amused. She was naked and slightly damp. Now that she was awake, Melody recalled hearing a shower running.
"I'm sorry," said Melody, irritated, "I'm not used to waking up with a predator staring at me hungrily."
Arielle laughed. She calmly reached out and caressed Melody's breast through the sheet.
"Does it help that what I'm hungry for isn't food?"
"A little," said Melody, shivering. She gave a contented sigh. "I haven't fallen this hard for a woman
since my aunt introduced me to her 'friend' Catherine when I was nineteen. All we did was shake hands."
Arielle laughed again, a sound Melody found most pleasing.
"You wouldn't be here if you didn't want to be," she said, confidently. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be. So, by that logic we should both be happy."
She leaned over and briefly kissed Melody's breast through the sheet, focusing on her prominent nipple.
"We both got what we wanted," she breathed.
Arielle stood and walked casually naked across the room. Melody watched in fascination, noting the way Arielle's muscles played under her tawny skin.
"I know you have some Indian ancestry," said the reporter, actually feeling envious. "I guess that explains the coloration and high cheekbones."
"The whole 'lioness' thing comes from my father making a play on my name," the taller woman said, as she picked up her bra. "Nothing about my powers is specifically feline."
She turned and looked at Melody, frowning a bit.
"You are attracted to men, as well as women?"
"Uh, yes," said the reporter, noting that Arielle didn't shave, well, anything, adding to her feral air. "What about you? Are there any men in your life?"
"No," said Arielle, absently, as she donned her underwear. She looked at Melody and grinned. "Much to the disappointment of my mother. Though my brothers gave her plenty of grandchildren, and great-grandchildren."
That reminded Melody of how old the other woman was. Though her underwear was definitely modern...
"Aren't you getting dressed?" said Arielle, as she finished.
"Now that the show's over..."
* * *
Melody worked her stationary bike hard. She knew what she was doing. She was trying to avoid thinking about Arielle. Fortunately for her continued employment, part of that effort involved working long and hard on her assignment.
Finally exhausted, she leaned over the handlebars for several long seconds, just breathing. Finally, she rose, brining the towel draped over the handlebars with her. She dried herself and the seat, and then the grips.
I overdid it, she thought, tiredly. I'm actually a bit dehydrated. Three weeks and she is still doing this to me.
A quick shower later and she was back in her den. The clock showed not as much time had passed as it had felt like. She turned the 3V on, using the ultrasonic remote, and set it to a prime network channel, scowling as the selector overshot and she had to go back around. At least in her loft she didn't have problems with signals from other apartments coming through the walls.
"New York has too many channels," she muttered.
The hourly news brief would be on soon. While the last few minutes of a prime time sitcom played out, Melody sat at her dining room table and worked on some papers for a column which had nothing to do with empowered. However, her mind kept wandering to the contents of the locked cabinet in her kitchen. Melody gritted her teeth and ignored the hints. After some problems early in her career - one of which had cost her a good job and a promising fiancé - she had learned to confine her drinking to weekends. The hardest times for adhering to that rule were just after a breakup.
There's no breakup! We had one night together!
Was it Arielle somehow influencing her? Or had she simply been that good?
I need to find someone at least as charismatic to interview, thought Melody. To take my mind off...
The idea didn't quite hit her like a thunderbolt. It wasn't even a new idea; she had planned to interview Malak for the empowered articles she had in the works. She just had a good reason, now, to do that sooner rather than later.
* * *
Of course, getting permission to visit his community - Haven; it was actually an officially incorporated town, in what was mostly farmland southeast of Chicago - was neither quick nor easy. That was already in the works, but the next day at the office she put a flag on those efforts. She also began going over some new documents which had arrived with the overnight mail, asking Sam Kingson for help with them.
Sam was older than her, and had similar - though by her choice not identical - views about many things. She hoped that his different viewpoint might help her with the flood of information. To focus on what was important and ignore the flotsam and jetsam.
"What's that?" said Sam, after three and a bit hours, as they finished one pile and Melody reached for another.
"I got a bundle of documents on government studies of empowered and plans for handling them." She turned the pile around so he could get a better look at what was on top. "Some of these are early versions of the registration program. Some actually propose internment camps! Starting right after the War! These idiots saw what Hitler and Stalin did and thought that was a good idea!"
"Yeah, that's something that's been repeatedly denied by the US government, despite several versions of the plans being leaked or made public through time."
"I know all that," said Melody, digging through the pile. "It's just that they keep going back to that idea! As well as mentioning other projects which I can't get a handle on. Here. Most of this particular paper is about chemicals known to trigger empowerment, and in a closing note says that the information should be useful for Project Grand Slam. I can't find a mention of that anywhere. Well, not in connection to the empowered. Was Grand Slam another of those poorly thought out projects to deliberately make empowered for government use? Were they planning to ban those chemicals? What?!"
"Huh. Are there mentions of that phrase anywhere else? Including for things not connected to the empowered?"
"Just for a big but conventional bomb from the Second World War, plus a couple of proposals for a second front in Europe and a proposed operation against the Chinese in Korea."
"It's probably some politician's or military bureaucrat's pompous name for a pet project which never had any real support or development."
"There's dozens of things like that in this stuff," groused Melody, taking the multiple piles in with a careless gesture. "Most are simply undefined, and asking about them either brings denials the word or term even exists or visits from plainclothes security men."
"Typical. They just figured that anyone cleared to know what was meant already did."
"One thing I uncovered is that even some of the empowered who were involved in the attack on the ERTA show are complaining that the police aren't taking the matter seriously. The police respond that they took their part seriously, that anything more than what they've already done is federal business. The feds say they've investigated and nothing more needs to be done."
* * *
"I know that's what they're saying," said Blackpool, to his superior at the Empowered Matters Agency. "I just want to point out there still needs to be a proper follow-up. If someone is doing a follow-up they need to talk to me. Maybe put me on the continuing investigation. So far I haven't even been asked to make an in-person report. When I asked, they said my preliminary written report was all they needed."
"Even you said that except for what Crunch did to the booth the matter was pretty minor," said Mr. D'arsonval.
"I just don't like this."
"You think I do?" said D'arsonval, throwing his arms wide. "It's a violation of procedure! I have a suspicion that someone high up is trying to make everyone pretend it never happened. Which I can understand; that prank was pretty embarrassing for some people."
"It does highlight some deficiencies in the program's security," said Blackpool, thoughtfully. "Of course, even I couldn't catch Mannequin."
"That's hardly your fault. Malak literally got in the way before you had much of a chance."
"Oh, I'm not complaining. He was far more suited to capturing Mannequin than me. Or most empowered, for that matter. I just think someone is trying to minimize the event, and that this could prevent a needed review of the security measures."
"That could very well be. I'll look into it, but it'll have to be as a side project."
"I understand."
I am a bit concerned that some parts of this are too similar to the previous Masks story. I didn't want this to be all-angel, all the time so for now am focusing on other characters, performing investigations. Don't worry; Malak returns soon, as does the action.
The Angel of Chicago
Part Five: Collusions
by
Rodford Edmiston
Blackpool emerged from shadow into the darkened storeroom. His informant's floorplan had been good enough for him to find the connection he needed. Now to see if the rest of his information was as accurate.
Thanks to his powers, Blackpool didn't need a light source. He quickly found the old filing cabinets he was looking for. They were locked, but that was no impediment. In addition to his powers, he had been well trained.
What a strange road this has been, he mused as he opened the top drawer. All I wanted to do was find out who was behind the coverup of the security problems at the awards show.
While he had uncovered the names of those who had given the orders to stall the investigation, those had all been people who were simply following orders. Then it turned out their bosses were also simply following orders. That trail had soon grown too difficult to follow just now, and Blackpool had put it aside for later. The big break taking him in this new direction had come from a sometime contact in a major metropolitan newspaper who had told him about a coworker's research. Inquiries about one particular phrase from that had sparked the memory of another contact, an ex-military security man who had been disciplined for asking about the same project. Getting from there to this forgotten repository had taken only a few more steps.
The top drawer had nothing of interest to Blackpool. The second did, and he put two of the bound folders he found in there aside after a brief examination. The two bottom drawers held nothing but dust.
A quick look around just to see if he could find anything else interesting revealed only old files about supplies and personnel transfers long past any importance. Things which were still around simply because no-one had needed the space they occupied.
Satisfied, Blackpool relocked the first cabinet, gathered his finds and again stepped into shadow.
* * *
"Melody, that's two more good columns," said Gadding, summing up in a meeting between her and others working on the awards show attack and its derivatives. "The readers are really eating those up. With all the hints about corruption in the federal government the past few years they want this sort of thing. Keep going on that. The rest of you can relax for a while, go back to your regular focus but help Melody when she needs it. This thing is too big to cover it all any time soon."
He straightened.
"I think that's it for today."
"He didn't say much about the pressure we're getting to drop your columns," said Sam, in a low voice, as he and Melody walked out.
"I heard they had to add an extra clerk in the mail room just to handle the letters," said Melody.
"Actually, all your mail is sent to that shed out back, where they used to keep the lawn mowers before the owners decided to hire a service. There's two people who go out there once a day and carefully check your mail for bombs or poison. They then open the envelopes and packages and decide what to do with the contents."
"I really hope you're joking," said Melody, with a tentative smile.
"Sorry," said Sam. He grinned. "On the bright side, overall readership is up twelve percent."
"So who is making all the threats? And have they actually found bombs in mail to me?!"
"A couple of fake ones, only," said Sam. "Things meant to scare you. No poison. Just lots of mail for and against, about evenly balanced."
He grinned.
"Even if some of those sending stuff aren't."
* * *
Being able to commute to work through shadows came in very handy. Blackpool was authorized to work in all fifty states and the US territories. He lived in an affordable place in a nice neighborhood, not far from where he had grown up, making sure to get a long-term lease. Only the large apartment wasn't quite as large as it had been when he moved in.
One of the first things John Adams Parker had done after getting his apartment was to close off part of it in a very inobvious way. This concealed and secure room was small, but it had plumbing and electricity and outside ventilation. It also contained the tools he used as Blackpool, including a compact darkroom.
He had been stunned by what the documents he had "liberated" from that storeroom revealed. The US - in violation of several international treaties going back to 1948, most of which it was a signatory to - was researching and manufacturing chemical weapons. Actually, there had been several programs during those decades. With some changes of administration programs were cancelled, only to be reinstated or new programs begun with the next change. Each time a program was cancelled any stockpiles of chemical weapons from these secret, illegal projects were shipped to a hidden base in the northern Rockies to be incinerated. However, even those behind the illegal programs were apparently unaware that most of the tanks, cans, casks and canisters were actually stockpiled. On those rare occasions when the discrepancy was noted the explanation was that more money was needed to upgrade the incinerators to do the job safely. By now there was a considerable amount of this material, deep underground.
Questions of who (many people, over decades) and how had been answered. What remained a mystery was why this had been done at all, and especially why it was still being done. Presumably, each group had its reasons. However, the beliefs of the different groups responsible for the production of these chemicals were so diverse that some of them were often figuratively at each others' throats! Yet they all had what they felt was a good reason to illegally manufacture dangerous chemicals. The only clue as to why was that some empowered activations were associated with each.
There's enough stuff there to kill hundreds of thousands of people, while activating maybe a dozen.
Some of the chemicals had been developed as weapons. Others for industrial use. A few were laboratory curiosities. The only thing they had in common was that one or more person was thought to have been empowered by exposure to them. Bizarrely, for some of the chemicals there was no actual confirmation they had activated anyone; just suspicion or maybe wishful thinking. Yet they had still been produced, then stored, rather than destroyed.
As far as he could tell, no current elected official even knew about the depository. It was managed by a consortium composed of members from all branches of the US armed forces plus appointed civil servants.
He wanted to talk this over with D'arsonval, but the man was at some conference. After thinking about this for two days, Blackpool decided to take only one action on this matter before speaking with his superior. He made microfilm copies of documents, plus a set of prints of the most damning pages. The latter went into his personal safe deposit box. The negatives stayed in the fire safe in his hidden room. The originals were returned to their drawer. He couldn't think of a safer place for them.
* * *
"Well, that came through quick," said Melody, when she came across a #10 envelope in her office mail.
Sam happened to be visiting when the delivery was made. He leaned in a bit and peered as Melody opened the envelope.
"Is that your approval to visit Haven?"
"Yeah. For a week. They'll put me up in a guest cottage, all expenses paid. Though I have to sign several waivers and acknowledgements and mail them back for final approval."
"I'm not surprised," said Sam.
"Guess I better start packing and checking plane schedules."
"Remember, the closest airport is actually in Indiana."
"Oh; right. Glad you reminded me."
* * *
The last part of her trip was made by station wagon, driven by one of the non-empowered staff at Haven. A man name Joe Blank. Melody had read about him; he had legally changed his name after some personal tragedy. A tragedy which Malak had helped him learn to live with.
"You've been here, what? Five years?"
"Five and a bit," said the calmly cheerful man. "Sometimes it seems longer. Most of the time it seems like a lot less."
They drove through fields, mostly of corn, standing tall as harvest neared. Melody shivered. She was a city girl; all this open space and green unnerved her. She was very glad she had - after considerable soul searching - decided to obey the rule against bringing alcohol. She could already feel that quiet urge, whispering to her.
They passed through the stone gates which were purely decorative; just masonry work on each side of the road. Then on into the town proper. Soon the wagon stopped at a nice little cabin.
"Here we are!" said Joe, opening his door. "I'll help you with your luggage. There'll be some folks by in a bit to formally welcome you, so you might want to put off unpacking until that's through."
"Thanks," said Melody.
She looked around as she walked to the rear of the car, where Joe had opened the rear door and was removing her suitcases. The place looked more like a middle-aged suburb, rather than an isolated town.
"Where does the water come from? How do you handle sewage?"
"Wells, and a waste processing plant," said Joe, as he slammed the rear door and reached for the largest two suitcases on the ground. "The cleaned water goes out into a pond, and is used to irrigate crops. The solids make fertilizer."
He carried the suitcases onto the porch, then put then down to pull a key out of his shirt pocket and unlock the door. He then handed the key on its labelled chain to Melody.
"Here you go."
"I thought you didn't need locks in this town?" said Melody, half joking.
"Mostly not. We do have some people who occasionally yield to temptation. Also, occasionally someone comes here from a nearby town to see what they can grab. The main reason is to make people feel comfortable. Especially our guests from crime-ridden big cities."
That last was said with a grin.
They carried Melody's belongings inside and set them in the bedroom.
"Well, I see some folks walking this way," said Joe, looking out a window. "I better get the car and get gone. I have to run some other chores before supper."
"Thank you," said Melody, walking back onto the front porch with the tall, lean man.
She shaded her eyes from the Sun with her hand, saw who was approaching, and was stunned. They were all strangers, except for one. That one was Arielle. Who smiled and waved.
The leader of the group was the Mayor, one Theresa Brinkley. She gave a short speech formally welcoming Melody, then introduced several others.
"I believe you already know Arielle," she finished.
"Uhm, yes," said Melody a bit flustered as the tall woman shook her hand, still grinning.
Later, Melody couldn't remember much of the next few minutes. Somehow, she and Arielle wound up alone in the guest cottage. Melody thought she had made it through the welcoming ceremony with acceptable grace.
"I had to do a lot of quick bargaining to be in town and part of the welcoming committee when I heard you were coming here."
"I'm... glad to see you again," said Melody, cautiously. "I... Why..."
"It's just... I like you."
There was more going on here than just two people who had hooked up for a night getting back together. Melody wasn't sure what it was, but decided that finding out could be very interesting.
* * *
"This is intolerable!" snapped General Conyers. "She ignored all the warnings and threats, and now she's in Haven! She'll tell them everything she knows! Damn it! Naturally, she works for one of the papers we don't control!"
"She doesn't know anything," said Simon Dundee, confidently. "We stopped Blackpool's investigation. As well as all other avenues. There's no evidence left they can get their hands on. Cleanup was total."
"Just how did those two connect, anyway?" said JB McAnelley.
"We can find out when we interrogate them," said Conyers, flatly. "We'll soon have Blackpool. I have a plan in the works to grab Gundersen. Once they're confined we can find out what they know at our leisure."
I've been a bit busy the past couple of days - including dealing with a plumber - so this is a bit short. I just hope it's readable.
The Angel of Chicago
Part Six: Collisions
by
Rodford Edmiston
Melody and Arielle didn't have much time to catch up.
"Unfortunately, Dad wants to see you as soon as you are unpacked."
"Give me five minutes," said Melody, even as she turned and hurried towards the bedroom.
"Five minutes?" said Arielle, laughing. "How unladylike!"
The two of them walked in an unhurried manner - that pace at Arielle's insistence - towards the center of town. Apparently, most transportation in Haven was by foot, though Melody saw several vehicles, mostly electric.
"Dad is watching the installation of a new windmill out back of the town hall," said Arielle. "That's why he had me come to meet you. They asked him to be nearby in case there was an accident. Though I think they wanted him mostly for moral support."
"Town hall?" said Melody, who remembered noticing several modern windmills on the drive to the town.
"This place is pretty old fashioned, for several reasons. We don't even have any connections with the outside except for power and a few telephones, and we actually produce a lot of the power we use. Oh! Radios - including two-way - are also allowed. Dad and several others think that talking over ham radios to people in other places is beneficial to many of those here."
Melody noticed that Arielle's manner was rather different, here, than it had been in New York. She seemed younger, more... well, bouncy. All of which was likely explained by being here, with her father, whom she obviously had great affection for.
They turned a corner and saw the workmen and several others in the large yard behind the town hall. Melody needed several seconds to spot "Dad" as they walked closer to the small crowd gathered to watch the project. With a start, she realized the lean man others were giving almost as much attention to as the work was Aaron Labelle. For some reason, she had expected to identify him by the wings, but he was currently in his merely human form.
Aaron Labelle was a short, slim man with dark hair and dark eyes, as well as a scar in front of his left temple. A casual observer might have dismissed him as insignificant... except for his eyes. Something very old looked out from his apparently youthful orbs.
Melody was nervous - understandably, she felt - as Arielle led her to the man.
"Hello, Dad!" she called out above the noise of people and machinery.
"Lioness!" he replied, spinning around with a grin on his face.
He grabbed her in an affectionate hug, which she enthusiastically returned. Melody noticed that Arielle was taller than her father. As well as darker.
"Dad, this is Melody."
"Welcome to Haven," said Aaron, taking her offered hand in both of his and beaming at her. "Arielle has told me a great deal about you."
Not too much, I hope.
"I am very pleased to be here, but remember this is a business trip for me."
"Well, we can get together someplace quieter for an interview later," said Aaron. He glanced at the tower. "They're just about to raise the last blade and bolt it in place."
* * *
They spoke some during the last stages of construction, but most of the empowered man's attention was on the windmill. By the time it was generating electricity and Aaron felt his honor had been satisfied the afternoon was nearing a close. He suggested that he, his daughter and Melody have supper together at the town cafeteria in an hour. His treat.
Melody wondered if he were stalling, but given that she was still in her traveling clothes she appreciated the break. Come to think of it, Arielle had heightened senses. Perhaps her father did, as well. Maybe she was coming on stronger than she realized.
Melody found her way to the cafeteria building a bit ahead of time, grateful for the opportunities to both grab a shower and don different clothes. As it happened (Or had they planned it that way?) her hosts walked up from a different direction just as she neared the door.
"Could we sit somewhere with a view of who else is here?" said Melody, as they walked inside. "I want to get an idea of who lives in your town."
"Of course," said Aaron, with a gracious smile.
They went through the line together, Melody expressing pleased surprise at the variety and menu. Once their trays were full Aaron picked a corner table which had both a view of the dining room and - through windows - a large part of the town. Having had an unsatisfying lunch on the plane, Melody found her supper very fulfilling.
As with her first meal with Arielle, Melody found the three of them speaking only of innocuous things until desert. Once that was underway, she broached her first serious question to Aaron.
"I know you started your career in Chicago," said Melody. "I know you still do a lot of work there. However, you focus on Haven. So why do they still call you the Angel of Chicago?"
"Yes, I keep telling them I'm not an angel," said Aaron, mock seriously. He smiled at her. "I'm sure you know how hard it is to change a popular misconception. Maybe you can use your press skills to convince people the nickname is undeserved in one part and now inappropriate in another part."
"Well, they should know you're not an angel," said Melody, smiling back. "You don't have a halo."
"Actually, only saints have halos. The confusion comes from some saints being portrayed as angels."
Melody found talking with the empowered man to be very easy; much like his daughter. He had a casual manner which managed to convey that he was taking you seriously without being too serious. She spent several more minutes on background, for both Aaron and his town. However, once they were finished eating and leaving the cafeteria she moved on to her main line of inquiry.
"Why were you after Mannequin?" said Melody, as they began walking slowly around town.
"I got word from a reliable source that Mannequin was planning something big," said Aaron. He pointed. "That rather plain building was the first one here. It was a combination dormitory and meeting room, with a small infirmary in the back. Today we mostly use it for storage."
"So you tracked Mannequin to the theater?" Melody appreciated the additional information, but wasn't going to let him distract her from her main line of inquiry.
"In that general direction, but not all the way. It just seemed like the sort of event Mannequin would relish disrupting."
"So what happened to Mannequin after you left with him?"
"I'm sorry, but that's privilege information."
"On what basis is it privileged?"
"Dad is a licensed therapist," said Arielle, proudly.
"I did not know that," said Melody, startled. "Can you give me any information on Mannequin?"
"Mannequin is currently in therapy by people much better at that than I am," said Aaron, sounding confident. "Good progress is being made."
"What do you know about the coverup of the security deficiencies at the theater?"
"This is the first I heard of it."
"According to inside sources, Blackpool was upset that there was no followup to his report, and intended to investigate on his own," said Melody. "Now he's missing."
"He's frequently on covert missions," said Aaron, unconcerned. "His stated intent to investigate the awards show attack further is probably misdirection."
They continued like this for nearly an hour, walking in a relaxed manner around the small town while Melody asked questions, Aaron answered them and occasionally pointed out something about the place, and Arielle sometimes made observations of her own.
"This is remarkable a remarkable place," said Melody, as they finished their constitutional back at her cabin. "To paraphrase a saying about war, this isn't heaven, but you can see it from here. It makes..."
She stopped, obviously embarrassed, realizing that what had started as an observation had turned into gushing.
"It makes you wonder why the whole world can't be like this," said Aaron, with a smile and nod of understanding. "First and foremost, this is a place for the wounded. For people who need peace and calm to heal. Who need a hot meal and a hot bath and proper medical care they can't afford while they are healing."
His smile turned wry.
"We don't get a lot of work done, here."
While she was still trying to parse that he laughed.
"I'm exaggerating. Things do get done. Just look at today's windmill installation. That should put us over the top, into the net electrical production range. However, it is very rare for anything new to get done."
"I... think I understand," said Melody, nodding slowly. "People need some stimulus to motivate them to produce something creative."
"Some of the greatest works of literature were made as a result of emotional or social turmoil," said Aaron, nodding again. "Of course, some of the greatest works of literature were made by wealthy people with comfortable, secure lives who simply felt the need to write."
"Folks are different all over," said Melody.
"Even when they're demonstrating how much alike we all are," said Arielle.
"Speaking of which," said Aaron, "there's a concert and dance at the bandstand later. Come and see what we're like when we're having fun."
* * *
When Melody arrived at the concert she found Arielle waiting for her.
"I'm so glad you decided to attend," the older woman gushed.
"Uhm..." said Melody, blushing and looking around.
"Don't worry," said Arielle, leaning in and speaking quietly. "Two of my Dad's first friends in Chicago were people who had to hide their love for each other. He's made sure folks here are very accepting."
To Melody's astonishment, she could see several same-sex couples already dancing to the hoedown. That not everyone approved was obvious, but no-one openly objected.
"C'mon," said Arielle, grinning as she took Melody's hand. "We're all friends, here."
* * *
"I do have one question about all this, though," said Melody, at Aaron's home that night. Despite Arielle's reassurances, she was surprised to find that he had only a pleased response when she accepted his daughter's invitation to post concert conversation and coffee.
"What happens if I die," said Aaron in a matter-of-fact way, nodding.
"Dad!" said his daughter.
"Oh, don't worry. I plan to be around for a good, long time, yet."
"Yes, but getting back to that," said Melody, not surprised he had guessed her point. "You're much more than a figurehead."
"Yes, but I am not the only person working to keep this town running," he said, firmly. "Not even the only empowered. Most deliberately stay in the background, in part so they won't be targeted if I am. I have also worked for decades to make the actual town government as independent of me as I can."
Melody was impressed. Aaron wasn't some idealist - or, rather, was not only an idealist - but someone who worked in the real world to solve real problems.
"Anyway, as pleasant as this has been we're are farm time here and it's getting late," said Aaron.
"Oh; I'm sorry," said Melody, startled as she looked at the clock in Aaron's den. "The time got away from me. Well, good night, and thank you for the coffee and the conversation."
"I'll walk you back to the cabin," said Arielle, perhaps a bit too hastily.
"I'd like that," said Melody, blushing. "It's... well, the way isn't familiar to me and you don't have a lot of street lights."
The Angel of Chicago
Part Seven: Contusions
by
Rodford Edmiston
The dark figure emerged silently from one of the deeper shadows and quickly stepped into the open space his informant's diagram had revealed. The following ambush was sudden and thorough, but not unexpected.
Blackpool had gone into this knowing his source might be compromised. The magnitude and ferocity of the response still surprised him. First, bright lights eliminated all large shadows. Assailants unseen in the glare immediately fired stun rounds at him. Both tactics were not new to him, even in combination, but the intensity of the lights and number of people attacking were.
He spun out of the way, then did a diving roll into a leap, his outfit protecting him long enough to reach one of his attackers. The man went down immediately. Blackpool threw the attacker's rifle at one opponent and the shooter at another. The first target went down, and was probably out of the fight. The second dodged. Blackpool spun again then leapt, his billowing outfit disguising his actual direction of travel for just a moment as he dove behind the one who had dodged. Because of that, the others held their fire for fear of hitting one of their own. That meant no-one was shooting just then.
This gave Blackpool enough time and room for his escape. He threw a smoke grenade straight up. It was impact fused, and went off even as it smashed one of the floodlights mounted around the top of the wall. That gave him enough shadow for an exit. However, as he dove through there was a massive explosion behind him.
They were willing to sacrifice their own people to try and kill me when they saw I was escaping, he realized, in the brief moment before hitting the far wall of the corridor he had moved into. Fortunately, he had intended the portal to close immediately behind him anyway, so the blast cut off after doing no more than heavily stunning him.
* * *
Before leaving her at the cabin the night before, Arielle had invited Melody to "a home-cooked breakfast" at her father's home in the morning. When she arrived the food was almost ready. However, Arielle informed the reporter that Aaron had already left.
"He said he had important business in Chicago, but I suspect that was a subterfuge. Dad hopes leaving us alone will help us bond. He really wants me to, well, not be alone. Like he is..."
That last was said softly and sadly, in a sudden downturn of mood.
Breakfast was quiet, even sombre. Arielle could tell that Melody had something on her mind. However, she waited until the dishes were in the sink before confronting her.
"Okay, what's up?"
"Arielle," said Melody, quietly but seriously, turning and taking the older woman's hands. "Are you influencing me?"
"I..."
For once, the empowered woman seems flustered. She stopped, took a deep breath, then continued, calmly but sincerely.
"I don't think so," she said, looking Melody in the eyes. "Seriously, the... charisma is so much a part of me I don't always remember to suppress it. I usually do, though."
"It's something which is normally on?" said Melody, surprised.
Arielle nodded.
"It's not some power," she said. "It's... posture, attitude, expression, turn of phrase, pitch of voice... When my parents realized I'd inherited Dad's superhumanly impressive nature they very carefully schooled me in how to use it. As well as being very stern that I shouldn't use it in normal situations. Always, though, it's just... there."
Melody sat, semi-sideways in a kitchen table chair. She looked very thoughtful.
"Okay. I knew it wasn't a compulsion or mind control from my research, but that actually explains a lot."
"It's superhuman charisma," said Arielle, defensively. "We can't make people do anything they don't want to do. We're just very, very persuasive. Like I said, Dad and I both keep it on a tight leash."
"Your father is a superbly moral person," said Melody, with a touch of admiration.
"That he is. I'm not, but I try to behave in a responsible manner." She sighed. "I want to make a favorable impression on you. It's possible I fudged things a little, but I very deliberately tried not to. Even if I did it's... well, a lot like dressing and acting your best and using the right amount of makeup and perfume to court someone."
She sighed again and nervously ran a hand through her tawny hair.
"If it provides any reassurance, exposure brings resistance."
"It's just that this... is so unlike me!"
"Hah!" said Arielle. "Uhm, sorry. It's just that my Dad likes to say that it's the things we do which are unlike us which help us learn who we are."
"Okay," said Melody, who couldn't help grinning at that. She sighed, then straightened, and even managed to look eager. "What's on the agenda for today?"
* * *
John Parker was sad to see that his apartment building was a smoldering ruin, but not surprised. He had to assume these attacks were through someone at work. The evidence didn't support him being betrayed by the entire organization, though. He contemplated contacting someone else there, but given that his superior D'Arsonval was still "unavailable" he realized that whoever was behind this had enough influence to eliminate or imprison a mid-level manager at perceived need. That meant whoever was responsible might lie about him with authority, or simply know if Blackpool spoke to someone there. So, who and what did that leave?
He decided not to check on his safe deposit box. That was in his real name, after all. John doubted whoever was after him would act against the bank, but surely they had someone watching for him there.
He waited for dark, for the ambulances and firemen and investigators to leave. The fire had started in an empty apartment just below John's. Casualties had been high, because there had been no warning, which was as deliberate as the fire. The investigators already knew it was arson. Very well-planned arson. The fire had spread rapidly. Several had died, with many more were seriously injured.
Monsters.
People who would do such things were why he had become licensed, why he had signed on with the Empowered Agency. Now someone was either using Agency assets to murder people just to cut down on the resources he had, or they were someone with connections to the Agency who was using other but similar assets.
The hidden room had received little damage. All the records stored there were safe, including the negatives he had recently shot. Blackpool reached a decision. He would send copies of the most damning documents to several people in Congress, the President, several people in appropriate regulatory and law enforcement agencies and several news agencies. Flood the world with the truth. Then see who reacted, and how.
John took what he needed from the small room, then started a fire of his own. He left with the concealed door closed behind him. With the building already evacuated he wasn't endangering anyone. In fact, given that the walls were insulated and armored, the contents would likely burn out without spreading beyond.
That much of his trail covered, John stepped through shadows to an alley on the other side of the country.
* * *
Malak returned to Haven just before lunch. Arielle was in the process of giving Melody a more detailed tour of some of the town's facilities when a shadow passed over them as they walked along a street.
Melody reflexively looked up... and stared.
She had thought Melody was an impressive individual; then she had met Aaron, though before this she had only seen his human form in person. Now she found an entire new standard of impressive.
"That never gets old," said Arielle, quietly, smiling as dove-grey wings lazily carried Malak overhead.
"Wow..." was all Melody could manage.
"Come on," said Arielle, smiling as she took Melody's hand. "There's not enough room here; he'll land back at the intersection."
That he did, enormous wings spread wide and sandaled feet extended, white robes billowing in the breeze. Melody reflexively hung back, but her companion ran ahead.
"Dad!" shouted Arielle, catching him with a hug.
"Hello, my lioness!" said Malak, laughing as he briefly wrapped her in both arms and wings. Some part of the reporter's brain noted that Malak was taller than Arielle. He looked up and saw Melody. "And good day to you, too!"
"Ah, hello," said Melody, more quietly than she intended.
Perhaps sensing he was making her nervous, Malak shifted to Aaron. He - with one arm still around his daughter - walked over and shook the reporter's hand.
"I hope Arielle hasn't been tiring you out, running you all over town."
"Ah, no. We took our time. Your town is very interesting."
"I sense a 'but' there."
"But!" said Melody, with a grin. "It's not what I came here to find out about."
"All right," said Aaron, "let's get back to my place, have lunch and then see how much we can get done before supper. Hopefully there will be no interruptions, but don't hold me to that."
* * *
He was true to his word. After lunch he and Melody - with occasional participation from Arielle - spent three hours in his comfortable den going over questions about the empowered in general and a few empowered individuals specifically.
"Something just occurred to me," said Melody, as she was about to call a break. "Aaron, you were talking about how, early on, some empowered wore disguises, including costumes, but later nearly everyone dropped them as impractical. You didn't, but that's because your outfit is part of your transformation. So why are so many registered empowered required to wear costumes on the job?"
"It's the image people have in their minds," said Aaron, shrugging.
"Wait," said Arielle, startled. "My handlers have repeatedly tried to get me to wear a costume and use a code name. I still occasionally have to explain to them that those measures would make my job much more difficult. Then get an exemption when they persist."
"Because when people think of superhumans they don't think of normal clothing," said Aaron, nodding.
"Well, that's true," said Melody. "However, I think there's something else going on, here. I think they make as many of you folks as they can - and the more public a figure someone is the more they insist - wear costumes and use code names so your typical non-empowered will not see them in normal clothes, using normal names."
"Increasing the alienation," said Aaron, startled. "Argh. I should have seen that!"
"Well, Dad, in your case the clothes are pretty much irrelevant, with the wings and all," said Arielle, laughing. "No surprise you missed it."
* * *
Again, after supper that evening Melody sat down with the Labelles for conversation and coffee. However, they had barely started when Aaron's phone rang. Excusing himself he headed for the nearest extension.
The two women didn't need long to realize something was very wrong.
"Pull every one back to the edge of the town!" said Aaron. "I'll be there in seconds!"
"What's going..." said Arielle.
"Stay with Melody! The town is under attack!"
They followed him outside. However, he started changing even before reaching the door. Once outside he leapt into the air, the downblast from his wings making the two women shield their eyes.
"Wow..." said Melody, distracted by his transformation and impressive departure.
Once he was gone Melody turned to Arielle.
"Can you get me on the roof?"
"Hah! Yes, I can."
"Do you have a phone with a long cord?"
"In fact, yes. Let's go."
The Angel of Chicago
Part Eight: Conclusions
by
Rodford Edmiston
There was actually a hatch in the roof, accessible through the attic. Once Melody was there and in position to see in the proper direction Arielle climbed out the closest window with the phone and jumped up beside her.
"This actually isn't the first time someone has had to do this," said Arielle, grinning, as she handed the phone to Melody. "What?"
"That's the first time I've seen you do something superhuman," said the reporter, as she stopped staring and took the phone. She dialed from memory.
"Huh. Hadn't even thought of that as being... Well, I guess it is..."
"Jeremy? This is Melody. I'm on the scene of a live event and I want you to put me on record. Got it? Okay."
She stood a little taller, looking into the distance.
"This is Melody Gundersen reporting. I am in Haven, the community founded by Malak and several other empowered and non-empowered to help those in need. Despite the noble purpose of this town it has been attacked several times during its history. Tonight may be witness to yet another attempt to destroy it."
* * *
Malak glided silently and invisibly overhead. The night was far from completely dark, but even so he had trouble seeing the approaching vehicles. They were all-terrain and equipped with medium weapons. They had also been painted or perhaps coated with something matt black and were driving without lights. Even the glass seemed to be covered with something non-reflective. However, to his passive sonar they stood out starkly, despite signs of exterior application of sound deadening material. That just made them a fuzzy blank volumes to his sonic perceptions.
Abruptly, the vehicles stopped. Men all in black - even their weapons had been given the same treatment as the vehicles - poured out and quietly took formation in front of them. In its decades of existence, Haven had occasionally been the victim of intimidation attempts by local, state or federal law enforcement, this did not look like one of those attempts. This was turning out to be one of the few true assaults.
On some unheard, unseen signal the men in black started forward. Once they had moved far enough ahead, the vehicles began creeping after them. All heading directly towards Haven. Malak decided it was time to act.
"STOP!"
There was no reaction.
"WHAT IS YOUR PURPOSE HERE?"
There was still no reaction. Malak realized they were likely wearing some sort of hearing protection under their helmets. Something deliberately intended to block his influence.
"Enough of this," muttered Malak.
He held out his right hand; a spear with a tip burning bright silver materialized. He hurled it at the lead vehicle, targeting the engine. There was a modest explosion - he was trying to stop them, not blast them to atoms - and the vehicle jerked to a halt.
Immediately, both personal and vehicle mounted weapons opened fire, painting the sky over them. Many of the rounds were tracer, and the streaks of light they produced arced into the distance. None of this touched Malak, who was again both invisible an desolidified.
That first spear was intended more as a warning. This group obviously needed more. He held his hand out again and concentrated for a moment. Four more spears formed in his grip, one for each undamaged vehicle. They flew true, and quickly all the attackers' ground transport was out of service.
Malak flew to one side then turned, diving to come in low and fast, aiming for the the middle of the formation. Due to sweeping his wings back he shoved men aside as much as knocked them down. The result was many broken bones but few serious injuries.
Those multiple blows slowed him, and he quickly landed, sandled feet sliding to a stop. Before those around him could react, Malak spread his wings, drooped them to knee level and spun. Over a dozen attackers fell, many with serious knee and lower leg injuries. He immediately went desolid and invisible again.
The attackers swept their weapons around, but were disciplined enough to hold fire. Suddenly, a very loud voice yelled for them to switch to blades. The men slung their weapons and brought out what looked for all the world like World War One bayonets.
"Back away!" the same someone shouted. "Don't let him get close! Gmfphffff..."
Malak spared a quick glance in that direction. He saw Mannequin - wearing what looked like an oversized version of a backpack crop sprayer - squirting something which was very much not insecticide or fertilizer on the man standing in the doorway of one of the vehicles; a man using a bullhorn to yell orders. The substance, in fact, appeared to be adhesive.
"That should gum up the works!" said Mannequin, triumphantly.
"Get out of here!" said Malak, as he shifted position, moving invisibly into the middle of a formation of armed men before again becoming sold and spinning.
On the roof of the house Melody was frantically trying to see what was going on. Many others in the town were likewise on the streets, or even also on roofs, some of them armed. A few were obviously empowered, and they took up guarding positions at intersections. However, seeing what was going on at ground level in the fields outside town proved impossible. Even Arielle was having trouble. She abruptly jumped off the roof.
"I can't stand this!" shouted Arielle, from below. "I'm going to go see what's happening!"
"Catch me!" said Melody, tossing the phone handset aside and jumping.
Fortunately, she did.
The two ran together towards the scene of the battle. Which had suddenly gone very quiet.
They arrived in time to see those few of the attackers still capable of it running into the night. A night filled with moans of pain punctuated by the occasional scream. After a tense pause, Malak came walking towards them out of the corn, carrying Mannequin. The odd pair stopped in front of the new arrivals.
"It... was worth... it," said Mannequin, reaching up to caress Malak's face. "Thank you... for caring."
Mannequin's eyes rolled up and the strange figure went limp. Malak looked at his burden for a moment... then abruptly opened his arms.
Mannequin gave a startled squawk, then hit the ground hard enough to leave significant depression.
"Hey!" said Mannequin, sitting up and giving Malak an angry stare. "Have some respect for the dying!"
"Try that again when you're actually hurt. Meanwhile, I'm going to tend the wounded and make sure they don't cause any trouble before the police get here. You get back to the clinic!"
"Men!" huffed Mannequin.
A glance towards Melody and Arielle showed they had no sympathy, either. In fact, both were trying to stifle laughter, though that was more from nervous relief than humor.
"Women!"
Muttering in irritation, Mannequin rose, dusted a bit and stalked off into the night.
* * *
"What's the word?" said General Conyers after the man he spoke to threw down his headset in disgust.
"The plan had to be aborted," said the mercenary leader. "The target stayed in a very public area the entire time. She was actually talking to her paper on the phone about the attack. Worse, only a few of the decoy team escaped."
"This just proves she knows what's going on!" said General Conyers, furious. "Well, at least we have Blackpool on the run."
"I did get a sniper emplaced in a high point," said the mercenary, nodding. "If you're still wanting her alive I'll recall him."
"No," said Conyers, after a moment of thought. "She's done too much damage. Have your man take her out at the earliest opportunity. Oh, and on the off chance Blackpool shows up there, he's on the list, too."
* * *
"I just don't understand why anyone would attack this place!" said Melody, obviously offended at the very idea.
"This isn't the first time," said Aaron, sadly, as they walked tiredly away from the city hall. "There's always someone willing to play serpent in the garden."
"Dad, I think this was definitely not some random attack by worked up bigots," said Arielle. She glanced at Melody. "I didn't say anything before, but I'm sure I spotted people in cammo with weapons sneaking around Melody's cabin. That's one reason I went along with taking her to the scene of the fight."
"Then we put Melody in the spare bedroom at my place for tonight," said Aaron, firmly.
"Oh, I really hope all this wasn't because of me," said Melody, shocked.
"It could very well be. I'll try interrogating some of the prisoners tomorrow. Our basement jail is currently rather overcrowded, even with the worst of the injured in the town infirmary, so we called the state militia to take them off our hands. However, that won't happen until tomorrow, probably after lunch. With their helmets and ear muffs off the prisoners will hear me and I should be able to get some straight answers."
* * *
Blackpool read the paper with an odd feeling of relief. The attack on Haven had been a terrible thing and could have resulted in hundreds of deaths. However, no-one had died, not even among the attackers. He realized that the reporter was probably the actual target, even though there was nothing about that in any paper except for her being a witness and having the byline in the New York Glory and their affiliates. He decided to take the last copies of his information there. She should definitely be interested in it, and Malak and his allies could defend their town against anything short of a major military mobilization. Now, to find an appropriate map...
* * *
Blackpool entered the main branch of the New York Public Library hours after it closed. He found a reference - a magazine article from two years back, so it was almost current - and focused on an early-morning photo of the center of Haven until he felt a connection. Then he found a nook in a storeroom to sleep. He had meant to just rest, but was so fatigued he quickly fell asleep.
The first stirrings of the janitorial staff in the morning woke him. He moved through shadows to a gas station which hadn't opened yet, to use the restroom and freshen up a bit. Then he went to where he had hidden his microfilm and prints. He made sure they hadn't been tampered with, then prepared to move to Haven.
None of this was an exercise in paranoia. For all he knew his opposition had empowered working for them to track his movements in some way. That was why he had made a point of moving between multiple, widely separated locations during the day and early evening, then walking to the library and picking the lock on the loading dock door. Now, he just needed a few moments to focus, so he could make contact with the specific shadow he had picked, when the local time in Haven was the same as in the photo.
Contact. He stepped through, coming out in the early morning shade of the town hall. Smiling under his full-face mask, Blackpool stepped out into the light and walked around the building. People were just starting to notice him and react when the shot rang out. Blackpool went down, stunned and cursing himself for being careless. He hadn't even managed to get enough control of his body back to roll into cover when he noticed people running towards him, shouting in alarm. The expected follow-up shots didn't come; there were simply too many people crowded around him, pulling him to safety.
I think I like this community, he decided, as they got him into the corner between the front steps and the front of the building.
Several confused seconds passed, with people trying to figure out where the shot had come from. While some were standing around, looking confused, nearly as many were shading their eyes and trying to spot the shooter, while jinking and dodging in case of more shots. Through gaps in the people helping him, he saw Malak swooping in, overhead, from the west. The direction of his home, Blackpool recalled from studying a map of Haven. Several of the people in the square shouted and pointed, apparently to the town hall roof. The winged form swerved, towards the bell tower just above where Blackpool had been dragged.
No wonder there no more shots; they would have needed to lean well out of their concealment to get the angle. Maybe they tried, and that's how those people saw the shooter.
Another shot rang out; this one obviously aimed at Malak. That just helped him target the shooter; he dove for the tower. Then came a startled yell. Blackpool saw Malak move into the bell tower, then back out the other side, now carrying a naked, struggling man. The costumed law enforcement officer actually gave a short laugh at that.
Good job. You don't know what he has on his person, so dematerialize just him. Leave everything else behind.
"I'm not badly hurt," said Blackpool, finally recovering enough to speak. He stood, with a bit of help.
"The infirmary is this way!" said a woman, someone of obvious authority. He later learned she was the mayor.
"I have an important package for the reporter," said Blackpool, holding the bundle out for the woman. "Melody..."
"She will get it," she assured him, immediately understanding he had knowingly risked his life to bring that here. "Theo, Keith, get him to Doc."
She turned and hurried towards a different building. Blackpool later learned this was the town jail, where Malak had been headed with the shooter. Satisfied, he let himself be helped to the infirmary.
The Angel of Chicago
Part Nine: Conclusions
by
Rodford Edmiston
"Did you get any sleep?" asked Arielle, the next morning, as she entered the kitchen and found Melody still where she had left her the night before.
"A few hours," said Melody, barely not yawning. "Your father insisted."
"You've been at this nearly twenty-four hours!"
"Even so, I've hardly scratched the surface." She looked up from the papers spread out on the kitchen table and intently into Arielle's eyes. "This is... staggeringly important. Especially since others aren't taking it seriously. I talked to my editor late yesterday and he said they'd received a copy of the same documents but had thought they were from some conspiracy theorist. I told him - without mentioning Blackpool - that I had independent verification and they're taking another look."
She shook her head, leaned back in the kitchen chair and sighed.
"They were ready to throw them away! Another hour or two and they'd have been lucky to get them back from the trash!"
"Dad and I and a few others have also been doing some research. Blackpool apparently sent copies to various news agencies and big city newspapers all over the US. And nobody took them seriously. It's just the sort of thing sensible people don't give much credence to."
"How is Blackpool?" asked Melody, now finally yielding to the yawn and also stretching.
"He was mainly exhausted," said Arielle. "His costume nearly stopped the bullet, and he's pretty tough underneath that. They treated his injuries and put him to bed. This morning, after they decided he'd slept enough, they sent Dad in to wake him. They figured that way he would awaken in an at-ease state, and not perhaps wreck the room before realizing where he was."
She grinned.
"One revelation: Blackpool is actually black."
"Huh. Guess I shouldn't be surprised," said Melody, nodding. "Quoting one of the references I read while researching all this 'To the distress of many bigots, the genes which are associated with empowerment are found in just about every population group.'"
She sighed again and rubbed her eyes.
"I'm almost finished. Thanks for the highlighters, by the way. I'll take a nap when I get to the end, then shower and lunch and start writing."
"Your paper isn't just going to publish the papers as they are?" said Arielle, surprised.
"No. Well, perhaps eventually, as an extra. Several people are planning to write articles and editorials explaining what's in the papers, once they've read them. Remember, I have a several-hour head start. They're pretty dry and require some background to understand in context."
"I guess I can see that," said Arielle. "I looked through them a bit, and there's not much in there of obvious interest. You have to know what you're looking at."
She sat beside Melody and put a hand over one of hers.
"My concern is where do we go from here? What do we - the empowered and those with us - do about this?"
"I wish I could say leave it to the authorities," said Melody, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. "Unfortunately, there are apparently enough people of authority involved to confuse the issue and maybe convince those over them that this is all either a conspiracy against them or something necessary and/or misunderstood."
"Yeah..." said Arielle, with a sigh of her own.
* * *
To say that General Conyers was furious would be understating the situation. However, he was the sort who used rage as motivation. After learning that the New York Glory was now taking the stolen documents seriously - and convincing other institutions to do likewise - he began a multi-front assault.
First he had the advisor in the White House who was part of his group pass along information that the documents were forgeries, produced years earlier by external enemies of the US to be distributed by their patsies in the country; that they had been seized as evidence when the plotters were caught. Now they had been found by someone who thought they were real, and must be discredited immediately and thoroughly.
Second, he informed the State Department and the Department of Justice that the documents were secure evidence in a federal court case against those same plotters and that all copies needed to be seized, and those who had disseminated them or revealed their contents must be arrested for espionage.
Third, he advanced the clock on Project Flit.
Fourth, he contacted those of like mind in other nations. Mainly so that if he had to leave the US they wouldn't be surprised if he showed up at one of those locations. He really didn't think the US would fall to the schemes of the superhumans and their allies, but a good commander always kept his options open.
That's all I can do for now, he decided. Except find a way to make those responsible pay!
* * *
About mid-afternoon, Melody and Arielle were discussing a particularly obtuse page in the liberated documents when their host returned. They heard him enter the front hall and left the kitchen to greet him. Melody hung back when she realized he still had his wings out. She told herself it was because he needed the room.
"I just got back from Chicago," said Malak, looking at Melody as he hugged his daughter. "There was a huge gathering of empowered at the old headquarters."
He sighed, then gave a wry smile.
"I think I liked it better when I was the only one who could fly," said Malak. "It's getting positively crowded up there, and some fliers have no understanding of right of way. Or sense of direction."
Melody actually grinned at that.
"Try driving in Chicago, some time," she said. "I will never willingly do so again."
"So what did they say?" said Arielle, impatiently. "I know they were planning a teleconference, something national and even international."
"The consensus is that all this is the work of a few rogue elements in several governments, plus the covert actions of a few officially anti-empowered nations," said Malak, solemnly. Not for the first time, Melody noted that his voice in this form was deeper and more resonant. "The known actors are, of course, denying everything, because their plans are not yet ready. Something which gives those working against them hope. Many empowered and some law enforcement agencies are striving diligently to uncover the as yet unknown details of those plans. I just hope such efforts don't force their hand."
He gestured towards the coffee table in the living room, where Melody and Arielle had moved the papers in the late morning to clear the kitchen table for lunch.
"Shall we? I just flew in from Chicago and my wings are tired."
The joke was lame, and garnered more eye rolls than smiles. However, the trio did move towards his indicated destination. Malak became Aaron as they walked.
"All this because one individual decided to cover his culpability in a lack of security on an awards show."
"Once someone becomes used to being corrupt in large scale, being corrupt in small scale becomes automatic," said Malak, sadly. "That sort of ego also leads to a casual attitude about such things as diligence in carrying out one's assigned duties."
"What really concerns me is hints in these documents that at least some of those involved have some grand scheme," said Arielle. "The problem is that even the newest documents Blackpool found in that storeroom are several years old. Some of the people mentioned as being involved with the - one hesitates to give the label 'plot' as that implies far more coherent organization than we're actually seeing - plans have been dead for several years."
"I love it when you talk like that," said Melody, grinning.
"Uhm, yes," said Aaron. "Getting back on topic, some of what was revealed at our conference compliments what Blackpool uncovered. What we're seeing is worrying. Some sort of plan to cause a major event and blame empowered, so that those behind the plot will be able to convince those actually in control of the US to support the anti-empowered position of the plotters."
"How big an 'event' are we talking about?" said Melody, worried.
"Alas, there are few specifics. Mostly hints from a few people making comments along the lines of 'When we make folks think they've killed thousands of people, then the majority will come around to our viewpoint.' With 'them' being the empowered."
"You can hardly get a dozen empowered to agree on where to have lunch," said Arielle, sourly. "Why do people think we're all united in some great conspiracy?!"
"If they can convince themselves that their failings are the fault of someone else, people will believe anything about that someone else which supports that view," said Aaron. "No matter how absurd it may seem objectively."
"Great," said Melody, tiredly. She threw her hands up. "I don't know what to do! Well, except spread the word quietly among my own contacts."
"That could actually be a big help," said Aaron. "Having word of this effort come from non-empowered sources might make people take it more seriously."
"It will also convince some people that the right thing to do is crack down on empowered," said Arielle, flatly. "Even if we can prove it's a plot by a few influential non-empowered. You know; just in case."
"Prohibition never works," said Aaron, now also sounding tired. Melody remembered that he had lived through Prohibition. She made a mental note to ask him about that later. "It can even increase demand by adding the allure of the forbidden to that which is prohibited. That doesn't keep people from trying it. Even those for whom it has never worked."
* * *
"General!" came the shouted cry from behind Conyers.
He glanced over his shoulder, saw who was calling and stopped to wait for the hurrying man. Lieutenant Talbert was a diligent young officer, but still needed to work on his dignity.
"What is it, Lieutenant?"
"Sir, this is something not for public consumption," the younger man said, quietly, once he reached the general officer.
Conyers nodded, and led the way back to his office. He'd been on the way to the commissary, but that could wait.
"All right, spill it!" he barked, once they were secure in his office.
"The diversion Major Grimes was arranging has worked," said Talbert. "Halberd has gone on a rampage, and is targeting Crunch and some of the others he thinks sabotaged the show he's in, preventing it from even being considered for an award."
"I still don't see why Grimes thinks that will divert attention away from the scandal."
Lieutenant Talbert didn't know about Project Flit. He thought they were doing a favor for a pro-military politician who wanted the scandal about the security problems revealed by the attack on the awards show covered up. Talbert was just ambitious enough to see helping with this as a way to get a leg up on his career, and just stupid enough not to ask important questions about what he was doing.
"Well, sir, he thinks that starting a fight between those two jerks in a situation away from the show will make the public forget about the security questions."
Conyers wasn't sure, but Grimes often knew better how the public and press would react. Also, from the sound of it the misinformation was also already doing its work in other areas. Well, as long as he was aware of the situation so as not to be caught by surprise, he didn't really care if some of those idiots killed each other.
"Very well. Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be all."
"Thank you, sir!" the man said, smiling and saluting smartly.
The Angel of Chicago
Part Ten: A Major Disturbance
by
Rodford Edmiston
"Those of us who attended the teleconference decided on multiple approaches to deal with the revelations from those documents Blackpool provided," said Aaron, as the trio prepared supper. "That approach being necessary because we still don't know what any of the goals actually are, beyond 'turn more people against the empowered.'"
"God, I haven't even gotten that far yet," said Melody, sounding exhausted. She looked down at the carrots on the cutting board, resting her hands on the kitchen counter in front of her, knife tightly held in the right one. "I'm still working on figuring out what these documents actually say and telling other people about that."
"What did all those empowered brains come up with?" said Arielle, who was preparing the onions. "I just hope this time they remember to ask people to help, instead of simply expecting them to comply with their idealized plans."
Melody sensed a great deal of animosity in that last bit.
"One thing which they did insist was essential is that we police our own more diligently in the near term," said Aaron, as he put the beef roast in the pan. He began adding seasonings and water. "That a force of volunteers keep themselves available to act against empowered who are misbehaving. Because it appears that not only does the conspiracy involve blaming us for crimes we had nothing to do with, but also inciting the more excitable empowered into committing offenses. I'm going to need the rest of those vegetables, soon."
"And you volunteered for that," said Arielle, rolling her eyes as Melody resumed chopping the carrots. "Uh, the policing, I mean."
"I can be anywhere on Earth in less than half an hour, and I'm both persuasive and formidable," he said, with a modest smile. "I can also heal the injured, be they participants in violence or bystanders."
"Healing was one of your first powers, wasn't it," said Melody, remembering her need for background. She handed Aaron the carrots.
"Yes. At first I could only heal when in my angelic form, but I soon learned to heal like this, as well."
"I know some empowered can cure disease, but the references say you can only heal injuries." Melody laughed. "'Only,' she says!"
"I can, indeed, heal illnesses these days," said Aaron, nodding and looking solemn. "The only reason I tell you that is that there are many who are far better at healing than I am. Even fixing a broken arm takes something out of me. Those who heal through devices or nostrums need far less effort and can help far more than I can. Some can even revive the recently dead, although that is much more common in modern medical practice."
"Well, my editor really wants me to interview Blackpool, since he's the one who actually acquired those papers. When will that be possible?"
"That is up to him," said Aaron, sternly, as he finished adding the last of the vegetables. "He is a surprisingly private person underneath that mask. He's not one of those who put a costume on for notoriety, but to maintain his anonymity while doing his job."
"I wouldn't be surprised if he's already gone," said Arielle, smirking.
"Wait, what?! Already?!"
"I'll ask Doc Lisowski to pass along your request," said Aaron, smiling. "No promises. It's up to Blackpool."
He opened the oven door with a flourish and shoved the covered pan inside.
* * *
"It's times like this I wish the Futurists were still around," said Arielle, as they cleaned up after supper.
"The which?" said Melody.
"You may recall that a group of some of the most potent - especially those who were mentally powerful - of the early empowered left the Earth in the late Forties," said Aaron. Melody noted that his expression was carefully neutral. "They saw how much better the world could become if people would only work for that, and were disillusioned at how even most empowered preferred to focus on their personal goals. 'What's the world ever done for me?' was a common attitude, even among the superhumanly intelligent."
"I do remember reading about that," she said, nodding. "They didn't publicize it or get preachy about why they were leaving. They just left, and if anyone asked, those who knew them gave varying explanations, depending on how willing they were to defend those who were involved."
"That was a group of real miracle workers," said Arielle. She sighed. "Even back in the Twenties, they came up with plants which could feed the starving, miracle cures, computation machines... We could definitely still use them."
"Yeah, I've read about them," said Melody, nodding again. "Some of their inventions are still used."
"They found a planet they thought was either livable or could be made livable around Delta Pavonis," said Arielle. "They built a big ship which used a combination of gadgets and powers to operate and... just left."
"I lost a lot of friends," said Aaron, quietly. "Supremely competent people whose idealism simply wasn't matched by patience and determination."
"Do you know if they made it?"
"Oh, yes," said Aaron, nodding. "They left communication devices here with friends and occasionally send updates. Their path has not been easy, but most are still alive and their population is growing."
"I wonder how the world might be if they had stayed," said Melody, quietly.
* * *
Melody got the go ahead to speak with Blackpool just after lunch the next day. As it turned out, the empowered crime fighter wanted to tell his story. His two conditions were that Melody make no mention of his legal identity or show a photograph of him out of costume.
"They won't tell me the former," she said, nodding. "I didn't bother to bring a camera on this trip. I was expecting any photos used with my articles to be from stock."
She smiled.
"I'm also a terrible photographer."
Blackpool, nodded, face expressionless. Melody wondered how much of that was training and how much just his nature.
"I'm currently persona non grata at the Agency, though that is completely unofficial," he said, voice calm, even and formal, after Melody sat in the chair beside his bed. "There are no charges against me, no formal arrest warrant, though I am wanted for questioning. However, I believe my immediate superior has either been arrested or killed and suspect that someone influential would like me to be next. I would appreciate you mentioning D'arsonval, by the way; if he is still alive that might pressure those holding him to reconsider their actions."
"You have my word I will do what I can to learn what happed to Mr. D'arsonval," said Melody. She settled into her chair and opened her notepad. "I actually met you once before, briefly, along with your supervisor, at a press conference for Secretary of State Gambolle, last year."
"I'm afraid I don't remember."
"Well, I was one of many reporters in the pool," said Melody, with a shrug. "All right. As I understand it, you became involved in this due to wishing to see a problem with the security at the Empowered Reality Television Awards properly handled."
"Yes. My report made it clear that Mannequin was only able to act so easily due to a lack of both personnel and plans for dealing with problems. When I heard there would be no followup I thought that was just standard bureaucratic avoidance of responsibility. I pursued the matter myself, and soon found that the person - Walter Beerman - above the person in charge of security - Brent Lawrence - wanted the matter covered up. I thought that if I investigated on my own - I have considerable latitude in my choice of investigations - that I could force the admission of fault and improvement in security."
"Only that didn't work."
"No. Orders from high up elsewhere in the government prevented my agency from acting on my information. However, as it turned out, I wasn't the only one distressed over the lax management techniques of Assistant Director Beerman. Several of my informants told me personal accounts of similar episodes going back decades, and two told me where to find documents supporting their claims. One of them - a woman who had far more than a mere professional grievance against Beerman - told me of a document repository with records which would provide information about several questionable projects he had been involved with during his nearly forty years in federal service."
"At what point did you realize that Mr. Beerman was anti-empowered?"
"I knew that even before the awards ceremony," said Blackpool. "What I didn't know was the extent of his bigotry. Or that he and several like-minded others were actively plotting against the empowered."
He described his actions at the storeroom, his attempts to report to his superior, his decision to disseminate the information on his own, the destruction of his home. Though he left out details on that last which would have made it easy to identify him, he knew that was still possible with the information he was giving Melody. He was trusting her to honor her promise and also to be cautious about what she revealed.
"I read about that fire!" said Melody, shocked. "I knew it was arson, but not that it was connected with this! Several people died in that!"
"Another crime they must answer for."
They spent nearly three hours, mostly just talking, Melody sometimes consulting her notes or asking a specific question about her copy of the documents. There was no time limit except what he set; Blackpool was almost fully recovered, and was primarily being held for observation, to make sure he was properly on the way to recovery. Melody had the impression that although he desired to get back on the case, he was glad to have something to occupy his time until his release.
"I think that's about it," she said, finally. "Before I finish, though, I would also like to get your ideas about what this big plot is. Does it have anything to do with that illegal stockpile of toxins?"
"I don't have any hard information on that," said Blackpool, even more seriously. "However, that is the way to bet."
* * *
Halberd had quick reflexes, but he couldn't fly or otherwise transport himself quickly. The time he spent finding where Crunch was going to be and traveling there could have been time he spent cooling down. However, not only was that not his nature, more information on the trash talk directed against him by Crunch kept coming in, keeping his anger stoked. When he actually arrived on the wide lawn in front of the Shriners' hospital he appeared calm, and was incredibly focused. Finally, after years of mistreatment, insults and dissing, he was going to show that bastard who was best.
Crunch, meanwhile, was actually enjoying himself. He and bunch of other performer empowered were visiting a children's hospital, and he loved kids. As the group of celebrities walked towards the front door following their visit, Crunch moved in close to his agent.
"Hey, Marcella, this was a good idea," he said, quietly, as he continued to smile and wave at staff and patients. "I had a good time and actually lifted some spirits."
"Remember, it's all tax deductible," said Marcella, who was far more mercenary than Crunch.
Once they got outside, though, they noticed several people staring at something.
"Is that Halberd?" said Crunch, confused, as he saw the hulking, costumed figure standing in the sun. "What's he doing here?"
"He's calling you out, bro!" said Bolter, cheerfully. "Says it's payback time!"
Crunch was in a good mood, and didn't want to fight. More, his agent was pulling on him, trying to get him to go back inside before Halberd saw him. However, the other empowered man, growing impatient, walked to a parked car, lifted it and threw it at the hospital building.
Crunch put on a burst of speed, ran outside and leapt at the car. He couldn't quite stop it, but he made it fall short, himself dropping onto the drive which went to the entrance.
"Are you nuts?!" yelled Crunch, as he nimbly rolled back to his feet. "There are kids in there!"
"Yeah, and I'm gonna show them what a pathetic fucker you really are!"
"What's wrong with you?"
As an answer, Halberd charged in, swinging. This was no scripted showpiece; he expected this to be a quick, easy fight. However, Crunch was also an experienced brawler - had been even before the chemical accident which had empowered him - and nimbly spun away from the attack. He stepped back, holding his hands up.
"C'mon, man. Not in front of the kids. You want to fight, let's..."
Halberd screamed his fury, and lunged again. Crunch realized he didn't have much choice. One thing he could do was move quickly away from the building, well out onto the carefully manicured lawn, as he evaded his attacker's repeated punches. Halberd followed quickly, but warily.
The two titans circled for a few moments, sizing each other up, looking for an advantage, much like Grecian wrestlers. Then, as if on cue, they both jumped forward.
* * *
Melody's second-last day at Haven was supposed to be spent mainly on cleanup and consolidation. That is, making sure she had what she needed before heading back home. In fact, much of her time was spent relaxing with Arielle, the two of them just walking around and sharing each others' company.
"So much has happened in the last week," Melody said, as she and Arielle sat under a shade tree on the edge of the town pond. "It hardly seems real."
"Oh, it was real," said Arielle, with a laugh. "Sometimes too real. I..."
She stopped and seemed to listen for a moment, then quickly moved out from under the obscuring leaves of the tree to peer at something in the sky. She looked worried.
"That was Dad, going somewhere in a hurry. I wonder what's happened..."
"We better get to the town hall and find out," said Melody, standing, her reporter sense tingling.
As it happened, Joe Blank met them on the way, having been sent to find them.
"Aaron got a call that two empowered were fighting at a children's hospital and took off," said Joe. "Crunch and Halberd. This was no pretend match, either. They both are out for blood."
The Angel of Chicago
Part Eleven: Rescue
by
Rodford Edmiston
The two combatants paused, both panting and sweating. After several minutes of hard fighting, Halberd was all the more furious that his opponent was holding his own, despite his certainty that he was the superior. Crunch must be cheating, somehow! As he had in all of his formal matches! How else could he be champion?!
Despite their fight raging through the suburb around the hospital, they had managed to return to the same lawn where it started. Around them lay ruined cars - some still occupied - several damaged structures, some downed trees, and a new fountain. That last was courtesy of a fire hydrant which had been broken off when Crunch got thrown into it. He had subsequently grabbed the hunk of cast iron and hurled it at Halberd. Fortunately for the neighborhood beyond, he had hit. Though that impact had done little except make the other empowered even more angry.
They both lunged at each other as one and grappled frantically for several seconds, each straining in vain for an advantage.
"Damn, man," said Crunch, as they broke from the clench. "What's got you so upset?"
"You know what you did!" yelled Halberd, voice going shrill. "You won't even admit it, but you know!"
"I didn't do anything!" yelled Crunch, frustrated. "I haven't even said anything about you since, uh..."
Halberd decided to take advantage of the other's distraction. He hated to use his ultimate attack, since it took so much out of him and would likely be lethal, but this guy had it coming.
"Let's see how those kids like you in pieces!"
He leaped in. His right hand was in a martial arts chop configuration, and glowing. Crunch reflexively blocked. The glowing knife hand sliced through his left forearm, just beyond the elbow, and then deeply into his chest. Crunch dropped, his severed arm landing nearby. Perhaps mercifully, he was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Halberd stepped away, threw his head back and arms wide, and howled his triumph. Only he noticed something.
Panting from his exertions, he looked back at his enemy to see that Bolter was trying to tie a tourniquet around Crunch's stump. Well, nobody was going to save someone he had killed! He raised his fist and took a step...
Blackpool came up from behind. He caught Halberd's right arm, inside of elbow to inside of elbow, turned, pushing him off balance, and swept both of the big man's feet out from under him in a full leg reap.
"Oh, now you're ganging up on me!" screamed Halberd, clambering back to his feet. "Yeah, go ahead! Take his side. I'll kill all of you!!"
He swung at Blackpool, who dodged away.
More empowered surged in, trying to stop the fight. Unfortunately, due to differing methods some got in each others' ways. Only a minor miracle - courtesy of AmberMite - kept them from hurting each other. Also complicating the situation was the fact that some were simply trying to restrain Halberd while others were trying to hurt or even kill him.
The big man jumped up and back, away from the swarm. He spread his arms again, bellowing a challenge. Despite the enthusiasm of a moment ago none seemed eager to meet it.
"STOP!"
The call from above did bring a halt to the fight. Enough of one that Malak was able to land between Halberd and the others.
"That is enough!" he ordered the rogue super, snapping his wings fully open in anger. "Stand dow...!"
Halberd screamed and swung. Malak desolidified, causing Halberd to fall flat on his face. However, he quickly recovered and did a leg sweep of his own, taking Malak's feet out from under him at the winged man became solid again. Halberd bounced to his feet, grabbed one of the fallen Malak's wings, and used that to swing him up, over and down, like some bizarre hammer, aimed at the battered lawn. Malak went desolid again just before the impact, vanishing into the ground. Halberd stared, started to recover, but too late. Malak flew up, out of the ground, the elbow of his left wing catching Halberd between the legs hard enough to send him hurtling into the air.
"Wow, and ow," said Bolter staring as the rogue empowered reached his peak and began returning groundwards.
"Bring me his arm," said Malak, as he knelt beside Crunch. Blackpool nodded and headed for the severed limb.
Malak made a quick examination of the unconscious man. He nodded, and, looking up, reached out for the arm as Blackpool offered it.
"Hold him down."
This time, several moved to obey.
"You'll need more than that. Be firm. It's necessary for this to be a tight fit to work correctly."
More moved in to help hold the huge man still. Malak held the arm firmly in place and closed his eyes. Abruptly, Crunch opened his eyes and screamed, struggling against those holding him. Fortunately, though they were unnerved they held firm. Malak, himself, kept his eyes closed and continued to hold the arm against the stump. Abruptly, the line between what had been separated vanished. The seam was gone, and Crunch was whole again, even his chest wound now just a bloody stain. His screams abruptly stopped, and he looked around in confusion. Malak yanked on the tourniquet and it fell free.
"That should do it."
"Wh-what happened?" said Crunch.
"Dude!" shouted Bolter. "Halberd cut your arm off! The angel guy put it back!"
"Not an angel," said Malak, tiredly, as he rose and turned to look at Halberd's still form. "An angel could have prevented all this."
* * *
He repeated this tired self criticism that evening, back in Haven.
"How far back, though?" said Arielle, putting a hand on her father's arm. "From what I know about those two this had been building for years. You only just became involved. Don't blame yourself."
"You probably saved a lot of lives, besides Crunch's," said Melody. "Halberd's in custody, the injured bystanders are all well thanks to your healing and that of some of the other empowered there..."
She didn't mention that some politicians and members of the press were already blaming him for the entire incident. Those were all known hysterics, with strong anti-super biases.
"Yet with all this power, I had to be asked to help. Called in from outside."
"Dad, you get like this every few years," said Arielle, sternly. "You aren't omniscient any more than you're omnipotent. There's only so much you can do. You have to prioritize. Do what you're best at, and thereby help the most people."
Aaron smiled and patted his daughter on the arm.
"Thank you, my lioness. You help me keep perspective."
* * *
Melody was sad to leave, but she had nonrefundable tickets. More broadly, she needed to get back to her office. Not only to work on her project, but to use the communication resources there to catch up on things.
Arielle and Aaron both - along with several others she had met in Haven, including Joe Blank - saw her off at the small airport where she caught a business shuttle to O'Hare. As the turbines on her plane shrieked, shoving the seat hard into her back, she waved out the window. She couldn't see anyone she knew, but realized that some of those she was leaving could see her.
Once back in New York she stopped briefly at her apartment, then headed for the office to get in a couple of hours that afternoon. There, Melody received a welcome from her coworkers almost as warm as the farewell from the folks at Haven. There was no actual party, but someone had bought extra doughnuts, concentrating on her favorite, strawberry jelly filled.
Once the public spectacle was over, her boss asked her into his office.
"That call-in you did for the attack on Haven was fantastic," he said, smiling. "I had one of our best writers type it up, with additional material added from other sources to fill in what you didn't know during the call. Several syndicates bought it from us, and readers are uniformly supporting your coverage. Whether or not they support empowered."
"I hope it brings some appropriate sympathy for those people," said Melody, sincerely. "Remember, most of those living there - about eighty-five percent - are just normal humans whom Haven is helping get back on their feet."
"Something I've had other writers cover. Now, here's some things you probably missed during your sojourn."
He actually read from a paper, obviously making sure he covered each of the several items listed. Melody was mildly surprised to learn that a bill to reduce restrictions on the empowered had already passed the House, though it looked to fail in the Senate.
"President Sandusky, whom most consider an elder statesman past his prime, is known to be borderline," said Gadding. "One problem for both pro and con supporters is that anyone who wishes to speak with the President has to go through his Chief of Staff, Simon Dundee, who is not only rabidly anti-empowered, but also fancies himself the power behind the throne."
"Yeah," said Melody, nodding. "It not just empowered he's against, either. People have tried to persuade Sandusky that Dundee is filtering people and information, but he just says 'Isn't that what a good Chief of Staff does?'"
"Finally, we got an anonymous tip on Grand Slam which led to some declassified documents which then revealed what it was."
"Do tell," said Melody, leaning forward eagerly.
"The idea was that at some point, for reasons not listed, the people running that illegal depository for chemicals would use the exhaust ventilators on the incinerator without turning the incinerator part on."
"What?! That... that makes no sense! They'd poison thousands, even in that isolated area!"
"The idea was that by the time anyone noticed what the source was, they'd have done exactly that," said Gadding. "That their plausible deniability would be that all their indicators said the material was being incinerated, so it wasn't their fault."
"The only reason I can see to do that," said Melody, slowly, "is that they actually wanted to create more empowered. At the cost of thousands who were exposed and didn't change, many of whom would die."
"That seems to be the gist of it," said Gadding, with a tired sigh.
"I will never understand bureaucrats," said Melody, stunned. "Not civil nor military."
"I suspect the real idea behind this was to get more funding for the collection and disposal of empowering chemicals," said her boss. "That no-one actually planned to do this but decided that just having the plan on paper would force the hands of those in charge of the budget."
"Even though it would expose an illegal program."
"That may have been part of the reason. The people who were wanting to dispose of the chemicals couldn't openly ask for more funding, so this would solve that problem, too."
"Okay... the mention I have of Grand Slam was from over thirty years ago. When was yours?"
"About the same time. Though it appeared to have been considered for more than a decade, from a few yeas before to a few years after your documents."
The Angel of Chicago
Part Twelve: Agreement
by
Rodford Edmiston
"We've pulling back from our efforts," said General Conyers, sourly. "Delaying the schedule. They've learned about the repository, but only from documents more than thirty years old. They have no idea what we're doing now, and we must do what we can to reduce the chance of them finding out."
"Why are we acting afraid of these people?" said Major Grimes, angrily. "We have half the nation convinced the empowered and their supporters are dangerous and the rest are on the fence! We need to advance our plans, not pull back!"
"We still don't have enough support in the House," said Simon Dundee, sourly. "Even the Senate isn't looking all that secure."
"All the more reason to start Project Flit right now!"
"The weather's wrong for maximum effect," said Dr. Morton.
"Less effect is better than none! If they shut us down..."
"Not physically possible," said Conyers, confidently. "That building is a fortress. Even if the empowered got in, we could start the countdown. Once that's triggered, there's no way to stop it."
"How do you know they haven't already infiltrated that facility?" said Grimes.
"Now you're just being paranoid. We've checked the integrity and it's solid. Besides, they still think the plan is to use the incinerator. How can they act against something they don't even know exists? Which is why we're pulling back and staying quiet. So they don't find out."
* * *
"That's the problem, isn't it?" said Sam, as he and Melody talked in her office during an afternoon break. "We don't know what they're currently up to. Could be anything."
"There don't seem to be any empowered who can operate like the mystics of folklore and just magically know the unknowable," said Melody, waving her hands. She sighed. "Even those who do have mental powers need something to focus on. So far none have come forward with any additional information connected to the few solid clues we have. Though there have been plenty of fake 'psychics' with important news."
"There aren't that many of empowered mentallists, actually," said Sam. "Also, I understand they try to stay away from mundane problems. Too much emotional turmoil from the thousands or millions who have an interest in the matter."
"The feds are saying they won't investigate; that all the evidence we have is just hearsay, and old hearsay at that. So, it's up to the Fourth Estate and friends to try and figure out whether this is even still a viable threat."
"Well, just bringing things like this out into the light tends to solve the problem," said Sam, though he didn't sound as reassured as he likely meant to. "Bureaucrats backtrack, people are fired or transferred, evidence is destroyed, just in case... If nothing else, we probably bought ourselves some time."
"Now I'm remembering something Aaron said to me," said Melody, quietly. "'Politics perceives facts and reason as flaws and acts to suppress them.'"
* * *
Blackpool was taking chances. He knew that not only had general security in federal facilities been improved in recent weeks, but the places he was thought most likely to be invading were among those now most stringently protected. Unfortunately for Blackpool's efforts, those analysts were right in their evaluation of his targets, at least partially. That increased security was why he had taken so long to get to this particular target. He'd hoped he wouldn't have to.
So far, he'd gotten away with his searches, despite a few more close calls. They stepped up their security; he became more cautious.
However, there were only so many places which might have further information. Worse, even he didn't know about all of them. Or exactly what those places he did know about might actually have.
One thing he had discovered provided little new insight but was a confirmation of his suspicions. The mercenaries who had attacked Haven - and the sniper who had nearly killed Blackpool - were part of a group which frequently performed dirty work for some parts of the US government. None of the prisoners were talking, even to Aaron. Blackpool wanted to get a telepath in to interrogate them, but they were scarce and there were multiple legal restrictions on their use.
Currently, Blackpool was surveying what he figured was the worst place for him to try and penetrate: The illegal chemical storage facility. Officially it didn't even exist. Blackpool had still managed to learn where it was. He made sure that all of his pertinent discoveries from the past few days were properly distributed, then began his operation.
Blackpool watched the compound for three days, using a small telescope from a nearby peak. For a while he thought me might be able to sneak in on one of the trucks or staff cars. However, he noted that at both of the gates there was some sort of large, metallic plate installed flush with the pavement. Probably a scale. Most likely, if the weight of the vehicle differed by more than could be accounted for by fuel consumption from a previous weighing at departure, it would be more thoroughly searched. Even more thoroughly than the current stringent examinations.
No, it appeared that the only way in was through proper authorization or brute force. He'd have to turn his attention elsewhere.
* * *
Melody was only mildly surprised when Federal Deputy Marshals arrived at her office and arrested her.
"What's the charge?" she said, as they cuffed her.
"Espionage."
She actually laughed out loud at that.
"You're kidding. That's the best they could come up with?"
As they led her towards the elevators she saw that other Marshals were gathering papers. Some people protested; others didn't. She was the only one being arrested.
Don't they realize one of the first things we did was make more copies? she wondered. She sighed. I'm probably going to be a figurehead in some show trial. I'm glad we have very good lawyers.
* * *
Finally! thought Blackpool, as he found something which gave him hope for a new source of information.
Interestingly, the break came from a magazine article about documents donated to a Presidential library a few years earlier. He had been chasing down some of the names mentioned in the old documents in which he had first found mention of the chemical repository. One in particular had lead to a dead man. A dead man who had been closely involved with both a past president and the chemical repository. All Blackpool had to do was locate where the donated papers had been stored.
Two days later, he was in yet another dusty storeroom full of forgotten documents.
Ironically, the deceased had been involved in a project to destroy the chemicals. To clean up the mess before the violation became public knowledge. Unfortunately, only a few drums had been incinerated before a problem had been discovered. Blackpool didn't know what he might find in those papers. Maybe there would be diagrams of the place he could use for access.
He found the relevant set of boxes, and in them the folder he wanted. He put the box back and left as quietly as he had arrived.
* * *
Melody was in jail for nearly a week before finally being arraigned. She'd had a few visits from members of the law firm the paper kept on retainer; interestingly, they seemed hopeful.
In court she was shackled hand and foot, still in prison garb. The prosecution - several federal government attorneys - presented their case. It sounded pretty damning, though she noted they gave few details or hard facts. Then the chief of Melody's defense team stood.
"Your Honor, leaving aside for a moment the duty of the press to uncover illegal activities, no matter whom that inconveniences, we object to the evidence presented by the prosecution."
"The evidence is solid, Your Honor!" shouted one of the prosecutors.
"Young man," said the judge, peering over his glasses at him, "if this were a regular trial I'd hold you in contempt for that outburst. Hold you tongue and wait your turn!"
"Yes, Your Honor," said the man, not in any way chastened.
Melody's lawyer went on to list the problems with the evidence, not least of which was its age.
"Moreover, the federal government has said, more than once, that these documents are either fakes, created to embarrass the United Sta..."
"All the more reason to jail her for spreading such lies!"
"This is your last warning," said the judge.
"*Ahem* That they are either fakes or just hearsay, and old hearsay at that. However, not only have researchers found corroboration from other - non-secure - sources for much of this information, but many others at other journalistic institutions have also spoken of them. None of those men and women have been arrested. The fact that my client has speaks of singling her out for harassment. To make an example of her as a deterrent to others."
He looked expectantly at the prosecution, but they all stayed wisely quiet. He put down the notes he held and turned back to the judge.
"Accordingly, we move these charges be dismissed and my client released."
The prosecution took their turn next, primarily reiterating their opening accusations. Then the defense rebutted. This went on for over an hour before the judge called a halt.
"It is clear to me that this is a case of someone uncovering information embarrassing to some members of the current administration," said the judge. "Given the age of the evidence, the way it was presented, the fact that some of it has been corroborated by non-secure sources and the general clumsiness of the prosecution I am not only dismissing the charges, I'm doing so with prejudice. This is not a country where the government can be allowed to bully a free press."
He brought his gavel down smartly, then immediately rose and exited. More than just the youngest member of the prosecution shouted in protest, but he ignored them.
"Well, that's a relief," said Melody. "I don't suppose you can take me to get my belongings?"
"Young lady," said the chief attorney on her team, beaming, "it would be my pleasure."
* * *
Blackpool sat in his cheap motel room and considered what he had learned. He still wasn't sure he believed it. The documents had been writing only - no illustrations - but what they revealed was most illuminating. As well as disturbing.
The man who had collected them had been put in charge of destroying the chemicals, yes. However, he had decided that at the very least a major upgrade of the incinerator needed to be made. More likely, an entirely new method of disposal would be required. He had considered several suggestions as to how to accomplish the task. One idiot (the deceased man's description) had suggested just letting the chemicals leak out through the exhaust vents, to be dispersed on the wind to safe levels. A follow-up had shown that doing this slowly enough not to poison people, livestock or wildlife would take a nearly a century.
Several other methods were mentioned, some absurd and some potentially workable. However, there was one which was downright frightening.
Someone had suggested putting a low-yield, very clean nuclear device in the lowest level of the complex, then evacuating and detonating. Not only would this violate multiple international treaties the US was signatory to - keeping in mind that the author had actually been put in charge of removing such a violation - but studies showed that anything potent enough to ensure destruction of all the chemicals would be in the megatonne range. In fact, further examination of the idea revealed that a nuke which would crack the repository wide open would barely affect most of of the chemicals. The result would be a mixture of still active, toxic material dumped into the environment as a fine aerosol, which could be carried on the wind over a huge swath of North America. Some of the chemicals would still be in dangerously potent doses still by the time the cloud reached the Atlantic.
Blackpool was chilled. He now knew with certainty what those behind the plot intended. He just wished he could see how to stop them. He also still didn't know why they would even consider doing this!
One reason I didn't set this in the Masks universe was I wanted to explore a different set of circumstances behind people with powers. Part of that difference is that this world is darker than the Masks world. The villains are savvier, the crooked politicians more successful, the press less fair. The differences have been minor so far. Be warned that the next few segments will be pretty dark.
The Angel of Chicago
Part Thirteen: A Hand Forced
by
Rodford Edmiston
The press of the crowd outside the paper's front entrance was so great that Melody actually had trouble getting out of the car her attorneys had brought her back to work in. There were bystanders, yes, but most of them were hanging back, watching the main body. This was composed almost entirely of men and women of the press. News of Melody's hearing and the dismissal of the charges didn't seem to have reached the attention of the general public, yet, but those who worked in the news obviously had heard. They wanted more.
Melody shoved the door open and pushed her way out. The attorneys were allowed to exit on the other side - watching for traffic, of course - but she had to endure this. A man with a backpack topped by a whip antenna shoved a microphone in her face even before she got the door closed behind her.
"Miss Gundersen!" shouted the reporter. "Mike Harvest with Radio 9 News Live. What do you have to say in regard to this acquittal?"
The attorneys had warned her there would be a gauntlet, and that it was better to get that over with. Not so much to answer the questions as to deliver a statement. They had also briefed her on expected questions and acceptable responses. This particular man - despite the bulky radio relay backpack weighing him down - had managed to shove is way directly into her path. He now used that extra weight to resist being displaced.
"I am very glad that's over," said Melody. She shook her head. "It's astounding that in this day and age there are still people who think they can hobble the press in retaliation for revealing embarrassing facts."
That obviously derailed some of his remaining questions, but he had plenty more.
"Even the fact that you're a known empowered sympathizer didn't influence the jury?"
"First, there was no jury," said Melody, glaring at him. "Get your facts straight. This was a hearing to see if there was enough behind the accusations to proceed to a jury trial. There wasn't. That's why the charges were dropped.
"Second, I'm not pro-empowered. I'm just not anti-empowered. Now, if you don't mind, some of us actually have to work for a living."
He turned red in the face and sputtered. With help from her attorneys and building security, Melody pushed through the mob to the entrance, ignoring the shouted questions from other members of the press. Inside she found a much more sympathetic reception.
"The prodigal returns," Sam declared loudly, grinning.
This time there was a party, with snacks and drinks and much congratulation of Melody for her victory.
"I don't want to sound unappreciative," she told the sixth person who did that, "but it won't be a victory until people in power realize that they can't just order someone arrested for speaking the truth."
There was general, if subdued, agreement with this.
The party faded out after a bit more than half an hour. The crowd dispersed and Melody was invited to her boss' office. She scowled at the robot cleaners and their human supervisor as they moved into the conference room. She wasn't sure why she found the machines irritating. Maybe that was just an indicator of her general mood.
As Melody expected, it wasn't just her with the boss. There were several others gathered around the table he kept in his office for small meetings.
"We got lucky," said Sawyier, the Glory's regular legal advisor. While Melody was at the party he had met with the attorneys. "If they had charged you with sedition or violating national secrets or something else more appropriate they might have made enough of a case to take you to trial. Even with evidence the feds themselves have dismissed as faked."
"So what's our next move?" said Sam.
"We push forward!" said Chief Editor Gadding. "Show them we're not afraid of them! The bolder we are, the more likely they are to back off, or make another stupid mistake!"
Melody thought he was being much too enthusiastic, but agreed in general.
* * *
Melody was glad to get home. It was only Thursday, but that locked cabinet seemed very attractive just now. However, as she opened the door she saw she had a visitor. She stared for just a moment, then quickly ducked inside and closed the door.
"Do you mind?" she said hotly, to Blackpool. "This is my home. I invite people in. If they're welcome."
"I apologize," said Blackpool, actually looking chastened. Well, as best as she could tell through that mask. "I... No, no excuses. I stepped over the line."
He handed her a manilla envelope.
"I think you'll excuse me - at least partially - when you see what's in this."
"All right," said Melody, relenting. "Come on; let's use the kitchen table. Do you want anything to eat or drink?"
"Not immediately, thank you."
Melody stamped firmly on the little twinge of disappointment that brought.
They sat. She opened the envelope and pulled out the documents.
"I made copies, but these are the originals."
She didn't ask where he got them and he didn't volunteer.
With occasional suggestions from him on what to look at, they went through the documents. As she realized what they revealed Melody was astounded.
"At least now I know what their reasoning was for the plans to vent the chemicals," said Melody, nodding. "It was bad reasoning, but at least I know."
"Yes, but since finding this I learned what the current plotters have in mind," said Blackpool, actually sounding frightened. "In fact, finding that information has consumed nearly all my time for several days. Even when I finally found someone who knew, they had no documentation. This was one of the techs who installed the nuclear device in the lowest level of the repository."
"They actually went ahead with that?!"
"That was just three years ago," said Blackpool. "Not due to the plans mentioned in these documents. He was told going in that it was intended to destroy the chemicals in case of a massive leak. He learned otherwise by accidentally overhearing some of those in charge of the installation. They've replaced Grand Slam with Project Flit. Which would use a small nuclear device in the lowest level to deliberately and quickly spread the chemicals over a huge area of North America. The idea being to create a horrific incident and blame it on the empowered. Thus justifying both a crackdown on empowered and a potential coup in the government if the current administration doesn't act promptly in the way the conspirators want."
In spite of everything she had learned, all she had been through, Melody needed a moment to parse this. Shock spread slowly through her.
"That's... God, I can't even..."
"I had a similar reaction. That was two days ago. I have sent copies of these documents along with the undocumented material I just revealed to several people. I felt you deserved a personal presentation."
"Right," said Melody. She gave her head a brisk shake, as if resetting her brain. "You're forgiven, by the way."
"Thank you," said Blackpool.
"I don't know what your plans are, but I'm going to grab a shower and a quick meal and head back to the office. This material has to be put before the public as soon as possible. Have you told Aaron?"
"No."
"Go. Right now. I trust his judgement. If he can't think of the right thing to do he will know people whose judgement he trusts."
"I agree."
Blackpool stood. He took a moment to smile at Melody through his mask. Then he stepped into the shadows in the short hallway between the kitchen and bathroom, and vanished.
* * *
She decided to take an aircab. She used a work credit card to order the cab and then pay for the ride at the office. She signed in at the night watchman's desk. She saw a few other people around, but he was the only one she actually spoke to.
Once back at her office, her first step was to go through these new documents more carefully, to make sure they actually said what they had appeared to say. Then she began writing. Most of what she did was modify columns already in progress, adding details and changing the tone. Before she had been careful to be moderate and objective, in the hope of having more people accept her words. Now she was much harsher, and far more direct. The part which required the most thought and the greatest care was how to present the oral-only evidence. Melody was deliberately vague and repeatedly noted that it was hearsay, but she got the gist into the columns.
Occasionally Melody took a break. During some of those she used personal contacts to spread the word, tailoring what she told someone to what she felt they'd believe.
Once her columns were updated, reviewed and proofed, Melody sent them electronically to the printer. She gave a silent prayer of thanks that typesetting was done automatically these days. Her copy would be checked for formatting by those preparing the early edition the first column would appear in, but they rarely read the material. Melody wasn't wanting any argument just now.
Melody didn't speak with the night editor. She knew Sol had that job because he tended to dither. Instead, she left a note for her boss paperclipped to office-printed copies of the columns.
She then took the new documents down to the rather odiferous copy shop in the basement. She left instructions on where to send the copies they would make. Melody then hurried out; the ammonia fumes there always made her feel a little sick.
All that done, she finally headed home. Again taking an aircab and paying with an expense account card.
* * *
"I am repeatedly confused by those who propose technical solutions to social problems," said Aaron, scowling. "These maniacs think that causing a disaster and blaming it on the empowered will allow them to fix all they see as wrong in the world."
"There's one more thing," said Blackpool, seeming unusually flustered. He had barely touched his coffee. "Something I didn't tell the reporter. Not... deliberately. I... just forgot."
"You're tired," said Aaron, leaning forward across the kitchen table and briefly placing a comforting hand on the black-clad figure's shoulder. "What is this other thing?"
"One of the measures they plan to institute after the disaster is registration for all empowered and potential empowered."
"Most empowered are already registered," said Aaron, frowning. Blackpool wasn't the only one who was tired.
"No! They plan to run genetic tests and register - and place legal restrictions, including a prohibition against voting or owning firearms and free speech..."
"Wait. This would apply to anyone with the potential for empowerment. Even though most of those will never be empowered, even if exposed to a stimulating agent?!"
Blackpool nodded mutely.
* * *
Aaron was not surprised the next morning to see several syndicated columns covering the chemical repository matter in the morning paper. He read through these. The local paper rarely carried Melody's columns - they were part of a different syndicate - but she was quoted extensively by others.
Blackpool was still asleep. Aaron was not surprised. He had seemed even more exhausted the night before than during his first visit.
Aaron was visiting with Mayor Brinkley in her office when her phone rang. She answered, listened for a moment, then handed the receiver to Aaron.
"We've got trouble," said Cashier, one of his old Chicago buddies. "Those articles have caused a bunch of empowered - most of them entertainers, like Crunch - to head out in search of that chemical repository."
"Those fools!" said Aaron, actually snarling. The expression was so different from his usual, calm demeanor as to frighten the Mayor. "They're playing into the hands of the conspirators! Whether or not they succeed in stopping the explosion, the media will see a group of empowered attacking a government facility to release chemicals which will cause more empowered!"
"Yeah, well, why don't you go tell them that," said Cashier, sounding angry and not a little frightened. "I don't know how much time we have before they locate the facility. Somebody needs to head them off before that."
"Roger," said Aaron, nodding unseen to his friend. "I'm on the way."
I'm back, and at least to my admittedly biased eyes this now reads much better. I'm still having some problems with later sections, though that's mainly because the plot as it is now written is similar to a couple of my Masks plots. I may change it or just plunge ahead.
Anyway, I hope folks enjoy this.
The Angel of Chicago
Part Fourteen: Ephemeral Solutions
by
Rodford Edmiston
Malak slowed from his high-speed flight mode well above the general area of the rockies described to him previously by Blackpool. He didn't know the exact location, but what he was trying to find was the group of empowered who were actually looking for the facility. They should be obvious, since few of those involved were known for their subtlety.
Little affected by the cold or the thin air, he circled, looking for sign of his quarry. Unfortunately, the weather was partly cloudy, and the clouds were hanging low in the cool and damp air. In some cases they were actually forming ground fog. His passive sonar had a limited range and the clouds frequently blocked his vision.
On the positive side, the early morning sun was rapidly warming the rocks below, not only burning off the low clouds but creating thermals to ride.
I don't do this enough, these days, thought Malak, smiling in spite of the potential for disaster.
He spread his wings wide and circled with several hawks, gaining altitude in a strong updraft while saving energy. For the first time in years he felt the urge to just fly away. To find some isolated area and live feral, for however long his extended life would last. With his powers survival would be easy. His duties were many, and burdensome. However, his sense of duty was strong. A few minutes later, reluctantly, he resumed his search, trying to find the group of empowered before they got into too much trouble.
He found the facility first. Or, rather, it found him, something made obvious as he suddenly came under attack. Two missiles screamed through a thin cloud cover towards him.
Malak watched them approach for a moment, then abruptly whipped into a complex maneuver. The missiles collided and he went desolid to let the debris pass harmlessly through him. He allowed himself a slight smile. He had been flying for longer than most people had been alive. He had learned a few tricks.
More missiles launched; four this time. Malak scowled. He went into his fast flight mode and moved south a ways. Stopping and looking back he saw that he had successfully broken lock. The missiles wandered around drunkenly for a few seconds, then destructed.
As the echoes of the booms died away Malak heard shouting. From nearby, despite his altitude.
"You found it!"
He turned and saw a young woman he vaguely knew, flying towards him, without wings. She wore a costume of iridescent white with blue trim, and a mask which covered the entire upper half of her face. Her blond hair fell slack as she slowed.
"Yes, and you need to back off. Pearl, isn't it? We're playing into their hands, giving them reason to release the toxins."
"Toxins?!" she said, startled, pulling up short in the air. At first she hovered, but when she saw Malak moving in a tight circle she joined him in formation. "Nobody said anything about toxins! They just told us there was a target here. A bad guy fortress."
"Take me back to where 'they' are, please," said Malak.
* * *
Other fliers saw the pair approaching from well off, courtesy of Malak's huge wingspan, and joined their formation. By the time they found the main party - most of whom were on foot - there were five flyers in the procession. They landed in front of the ground-bound. Most of those assembled were walking due to the terrain, and many of them were obviously not happy about that. A few were in vehicles appropriate to the rough landscape.
"You're being played!" said Malak, loudly, as he landed, wings cupped and dust flying from the downdraft this produced. "The people in that facility have a plan to use empowered as scapegoats. The closer you come to the repository the more likely you are to cause them to detonate the device which will spread the toxins."
"What toxin?" said someone.
"Why should we believe you?" said someone else.
"A collection of toxins which can trigger the empowerment process, but will kill most of those exposed," said Malak. "Because I'm one of those who has been working to reveal the plot."
There was a confused shifting and accompanying murmur from that. However, before anyone could decide on their next course of action, Blackpool came hurrying out of the shadow of a crevice.
"They've already started the countdown for the device!" he shouted. "Malak, you didn't cause it; they began evacuating the place just before you arrived. I've been watching them from a nearby peak. They apparently decided to proceed with their plan as soon as they realized this group..."
He included the mass of empowered with a sweeping gesture.
"...was looking for them."
"Do you know how long we have?" said Malak, alarmed.
"There's supposed to be a half hour countdown," said Blackpool. "To give staff time to get away. That's what alerted me. Vehicles began leaving in a big hurry. Started about ten minutes ago. Just before they launched the missiles against you."
"So who was shooting at me?!"
"Probably automatic systems."
"So... There's nobody there to fight?" said Crunch, sounding disappointed.
"Probably not, but the weapons are still active," said Malak. He grimaced. "Very active."
"Just where is this bomb?" said Pearl.
"My contact - who helped install it - said it was in a pit dug into the rock below the lowest level of the facility. The pit the bomb is in was covered in heavily reinforced concrete a yard thick. That is now the floor of the chamber. It looks like any other concrete-floored room, but it's very tough. Once the countdown is started the bomb carries it out, ignoring any further outside signals."
"What kind of bomb is it?" someone asked.
"A small fission device, implosion type. Of about fifteen kilotonnes."
There was more disturbance as that soaked in.
"I see helicopters flying around," said one of the flyers who had followed Malak and Pearl here, suddenly. Eagle Eye, Malak remembered he was called, as well as that he had appropriate vision. "Earlier there were some government type helicopters leaving. These are other types - civilian - and they're circling the area."
"That's all we need," said someone, sourly. "News people poking their noses in."
"Now, hold on," said Crunch, angrily. "Some of us earn a living being on 3V!"
"You called them, didn't you," said Blackpool, tiredly, his tone not questioning.
"I have to notify my handlers when I may be going into action. It's the law!"
"Later!" snapped Malak, cutting off a potentially heated and time consuming exchange. He turned to Blackpool. "Can you get into the control room of that base and turn off the defenses?"
"Watch me," he said, his usually controlled voice almost a snarl.
"Right. I'm heading back now."
Blackpool darted into the shaded crevice. Malak took to the air. After a moment Pearl jumped after him. Then others began streaming into the air. A couple of super speedsters chased after them, but were hampered by the terrain. More slowly, the entire group of empowered began shifting towards the repository as a whole.
"Can any of you communicate with those pilots?" Malak shouted to the other flyers. A couple indicated they could. "Tell them that we're trying to stop a nuclear device, and to keep their distance in case we fail."
One of the other flyers actually looked startled, then peeled off and headed north at a high speed. Several of those remaining looked upset.
"This is not mandatory," said Malak, looking around at those accompanying him. "Any of you can leave if you want to."
None of those remaining did, though most thought seriously about it. Meanwhile, two news helicopters left and most of the rest moved further away, but one which had the logo of the reality show Crunch was in moved closer.
"How will we know if it's safe to approach?" said Pearl, growing increasingly nervous as they drew closer.
"I'll go in first," said Malak. "I should be able to avoid any missiles and heavy machine gun bullets can't do much to me."
He shifted to his golden robes, which were both more noticeable due to their sheen and also offered some armor protection. As it turned out, when they drew close to the facility they could hear Blackpool's voice. He seemed to be shouting over what sounded like a public address system.
"Testing, testing... If you can hear me I have turned off the defenses. I am in the glass-walled room at the top of the central tower."
He began repeating himself.
Malak increased speed and pulled ahead of the others, moving directly towards the indicated tower, waving. Inside, he saw Blackpool waving back. However, as he crossed over the wall around the compound Malak came under small arms fire.
"Stand down! I am Blackpool, LEO for the Empowered Agency! Your boss is under arrest and your facility seized for violation of international treaty and federal law! Stand down!"
Malak saw several armed figures wearing US Army garb in an open area of the compound, looking at each other in confusion. Unfortunately, more flyers were following Malak in and he worried they might also be fired on. Some of them were a lot less durable than him.
"STAND DOWN!" he shouted. That settled the matter.
Malak phased through the glass and entered the large room, which reminded him of the control room of the airport. The ceiling was high enough that he actually had little trouble with his wings when he resolidified. There were several unconscious people lying around, and one clearly conscious. He was bound in an office chair, which Blackpool was standing beside.
"The bad news is this fool activated the bomb and there's no way to stop it from here." Blackpool glanced a display. "We have sixteen minutes left."
"You monsters will never conquer the United States of America!" He shouted. One eye was rapidly getting black around it and he had other injuries, none serious. "America for humans only!"
"So he's suicidal?" said Malak.
"Yes. He and a few volunteers stayed."
"If they timer can't be stopped, why did they stay?" said Pearl, who had found a way in through a broken window.
"Fanatics," said Malak, almost spitting the word as he glared at Major Grimes. "Well, we can name call later. How do we stop this thing?"
"You can't!" crowed the Major. "Our dedication to the cause of humanity makes us undefeatable!"
"Did you hit him on the head, or something?" said Pearl.
"Later," said Malak.
"We need to get someone here to watch these prisoners, then go down to the pit," said Blackpool.
"I'll round some folks up," said Pearl, walking to the window. "You two go ahead. Hey! Eagle Eye! Get up here! The rest of you need to get in through the ground floor and head downstairs!"
"I better show you the way," said Blackpool, hurrying towards a door with EXIT above it.
"What about smashing through the concrete?" said Malak, spreading his wings a bit as he walked to indicate how he intended to do it.
"There are impact sensors on the bomb," said Blackpool. "They're inert before the timer is started, but once it is going tripping one will set it off. Working on it won't cause that; takes a good jolt."
Malak had to turn to Aaron to fit through the door, but that did nothing to slow them. The two men ran down the stairs, trying to figure out a solution as they went.
"I could get a tech into the pit by phasing."
"I don't think there's enough time!" said Blackpool, sounding uncharacteristically flustered. "We'd have to find someone competent, get them here..."
"How heavy is that device?"
"Well over a tonne," said Blackpool.
"Too heavy for me to phase, then," said Aaron, with a grimace.
They picked up more empowered at the ground floor - more flyers, who were the only ones there yet - where that stair ended and they had to cross a hallway to another. Aaron briefed them as they resumed their descent. They seemed a bit confused as to who he was, but he was with Blackpool and seemed to know what he was doing.
Finally, deep under the facility, they reached a locked security door. At Blackpool's indication Aaron transformed and smashed it open with the elbow of his right wing. Thus answering who he was to those who hadn't figured it out already.
"Golly!" said one of the younger members of their group.
Blackpool turned the lights on inside. Beyond the door was an empty room with concrete floor, walls and ceiling. There were no signs that below their feet lay nuclear death. They all just stared for a moment.
"What are we going to do?!" said Pearl, looking hopelessly around the bare room.
"Wait. I saw Domino with the larger group," said Blackpool, suddenly.
"That is a very good idea," said Malak, nodding. He looked around. "We need someone to get Domino here as quickly as possible!"
"We have twelve minutes," said Pearl, as two of the flyers hurried back upstairs.
* * *
Domino came hurrying into the room an eternity later. She started to say something but Blackpool cut her off.
"Domino, I know you can go desolid," said Blackpool, suddenly. "Can you also make other things go desolid?"
"Yes," she said, though she looked uncertain.
"Have you ever synchronized with someone else doing that?" said Malak.
"Yes, actually," she said, looking more confident.
"According to my contact, the bomb is in an open pit, with room for people to work on it," said Blackpool. "They knew they might have to disarm it later. It's not boobytrapped, except for shock sensors. Just on an irrevocable timer. Even if we cut the wires going into it will just continue to zero. We need you and Malak to push it into the desolid plane, then get back out here."
"That's eight minutes," said Pearl, voice strained.
"Plenty of time," said Malak, nodding calmly. "Let's get to it."
* * *
At Malak's suggestion, those not actually needed for the planned procedure left. Domino and Malak stood at the center of the slab, she nervous, he calm but intense. She had donned a headband with a lamp, the light already on. Malak noted, absently, that the band matched her silver lame and black costume. He took her hand.
"Relax. I'll guide you in. There'll be plenty of room. We have enough time."
"Thank you," she said, quietly.
The Angel of Chicago
Part Fifteen: Detonations
by
Rodford Edmiston
They descended through the thick pour of concrete and steel into the cold, dank chamber. Domino's light did little to dispel the shadows in spite of the small space. There, in the center, on a stand, was the bomb.
"It's smaller than I was expecting," said Domino, sounding relieved.
"It's likely to be very dense, though," said Malak, who was having trouble fitting his wings in the confined volume. He sighed and changed to his base form. "There. Now. You place your hands - gently - on that end and I'll take this one."
* * *
Melody scowled at the document on her screen. Everything was spelled correctly and the grammar seemed fine, but she just wasn't satisfied with the flow of words. Maybe if she changed...
"You gotta come look at this," gasped Sam, without preamble, from the doorway to her office.
He was gone before she could ask questions. With an angry grumble she rose and hurried after him.
The breakroom on this floor had a 3V, an older model with a tank instead of a flat screen. The image could only be seen from the front. What it showed was confusing, which was not helped by one of the colors being out of adjustment, causing cyan ghosts at the left edges of things in the image. Obviously shot from the air, the view revealed some sort of walled installation.
"What...?"
Suddenly, she knew.
"It's the repository! What's going on?"
She got a confusing response, with people actually contradicting each other. Some said it was part of a reality show, a position supported by the fact that the best closeups were coming from a reality show helicopter. Others claimed it was a bunch of empowered assaulting a government compound, though there didn't seem to be much actual assaulting going on. In fact, the only damage seemed to be to one window in what looked like an airport control tower.
"That's the chemical repository," said Melody, above the babble in the room. "Where are all the personnel who are supposed to be there?"
"Someone said they were seen evacuating before the empowered got there," said Sam.
"That doesn't make sense! They're military, and charged with protecting the place! The only reason they'd just leave is if..."
Melody went cold, and silent. She had the dread feeling she was about to watch a bunch of people die. A very large bunch.
"Oh, there's the assault," said someone, sarcastically. "Crunch just showed up."
"Yeah, but did you see that? He just ran through an open gate and into the building."
"Maybe he's learning," said Sam, smirking.
* * *
"It's not working," said Domino.
She was covered in clammy sweat; the pit was cold and damp and neither of them was comfortable. She was already getting tired. They might also have been running low on oxygen in the cramped space.
"Alright, take a moment," said Aaron. "I'll angel-up and that will give me some extra push. Then we try again."
He had to fold his wings into a rather uncomfortable configuration, but Malak managed to fit.
"All right. Put your hands on that end. Now apply your power at a low level and synch with mine. Now, push!"
There was a moment of hesitation; then, finally, the bomb vanished.
"Good work!" said Malak, to the obviously exhausted woman. With the bomb gone he had more room to maneuver, and grabbed Domino's hands to help her. "Now, let's get out of here! Quickly!"
When they surfaced in the chamber they were mildly surprised to see Crunch and a few other newcomers also there.
"It's done," said Malak, tiredly. Domino just nodded.
"So that solves the problem, right?" said Crunch. He sounded a bit disappointed.
"I hope," said Malak.
"You hope?" said Blackpool, concerned.
"Phasing is not complete isolation. There are still some interactions with the physical world. I've done small bombs before and not even been able to detect an effect, but with this..."
"We'll know soon," said Pearl, pushing her glove up to pointedly check her watch.
"I suggest we all get upstairs. I also suggest anyone not resistant to damage of multiple types - including ionizing radiation - leave the compound."
Malak and a few others went all the way back to the control room. Eagle Eye looked up with surprise when they entered. Malak repeated his warning, but the visually enhanced empowered decided to stay.
"Two minutes," said Pearl, glancing at the console.
"Hah! You failed, didn't you?" said Major Grimes.
"That remains to be seen," said Blackpool, moving to a control panel.
"We need to get these soldiers out of here," said Malak.
"The tower is shielded against radiation," said Blackpool. "If the window hadn't been shot out that would include air filtration to protect from chemical leaks. Naturally, they used armor-piercing ammunition inside their armored room."
"Can we at least block the window, then?" said Malak, realizing there was no longer time for much more than that.
Given the abilities of those present, the broken window was quickly covered and sealed. The positive pressure ventilation system helped with that.
Malak looked out over the compound. Those empowered who were leaving - shepherded by Crunch, who seemed nervous about possibly getting radiation exposure - were making certain the few remaining base personnel out there also left. The control room became quiet. Except for the occasional moans of the prisoners, many of whom were still unconscious.
Malak glanced at Grimes, who was smiling smugly. That worried him. What were they overlooking? Was the bomb they had pushed aside a fake, with the real one buried even deeper? No, that didn't feel right. Yet this man was convinced they couldn't win. Maybe he was just delusional.
The counter reached zero. There was an odd sort of eerie flare of light, accompanied by a distant boom and a shudder. After several seconds of nothing more, those in the control room began to relax. Well, most of them.
"Nothing," said Grimes. His speech seemed slurred. He looked at them with bleary eyes. "All for nothing."
"Anyone sense anything?" said Malak.
"No," was the consensus.
"No sign of leakage, either," said Blackpool, checking the instruments. He gave a huge sigh of relief. "It worked."
"Wasted," said Grimes, eyes rolling back. "All wasted."
He began convulsing.
"What the Hell..." said Pearl.
She wasn't the only one alarmed. Were the chemical leak detection instruments wrong?
Malak moved in quickly.
"He's poisoned!"
He put his hands on the Major.
"I can heal the damage it's doing to him, but I can't remove the poison. If we can't get him prompt medical aid he'll die!"
"Would that be so bad?" said Eagle Eye, wistfully.
"They're all dying," said Blackpool, checking the other prisoners.
Malak, swearing, quickly checked them.
"Too late to try and bring it back up. They must have timed it to be lethal just after the explosion."
He gave a growl of aggravation, and began healing the half dozen other military men.
"I don't know how long I can keep this up. We have to get them proper medical care."
"On it," said Blackpool.
* * *
Back at the newspaper's break room, cheers broke out as it became obvious that the deadline had passed. Even if most weren't sure what it was a deadline for.
"Well, that's a relief," said Melody, as she and Sam wandered out. "Though I bet some people find a way to blame the empowered for... well, nothing happening."
She gave a nervous laugh.
"Actually, they were responsible, in a way," Sam pointed out. "Though, yeah, from what I know of the situation those nutjobs were just looking for an excuse."
"Well, I've got a deadline, so excuse me," said Melody, turning into her office as they reached the door.
* * *
"I thought you were persona non grata," said Malak, as Blackpool got off the radio.
"One of the things I learned in my investigations is that whatever enemies I have, my problems with the Agency are strictly internal," said the black-clad crime fighter. "They have't told anyone else - including other federal law enforcement agencies - that I'm wanted by them. Haven't even revoked my status as an operative of the Empowered Matters Agency. That's just one more clue that the people behind this are from a very small group. Who know they can't support their accusations if those not involved in the plot ask awkward questions."
His status stood him in good stead when military helicopters from the nearest Air National Guard base flew in. The fact that this complex was not on their maps or lists of secure facilities - not even as an otherwise undefined Do Not Fly zone - inclined them to accept his brief explanation. Helping this was the fact that a few of the empowered who had responded to the message to attack the base had local or regional law enforcement powers, or were simply known to be on the side of the angels. Not even including Malak in that evaluation.
As for those who had sent the notification for various empowered to gather and hunt down the chemical repository, that was a matter for another day.
The injured were promptly ferried to the closest civilian hospital. Malak had managed to keep all seven alive, but only by nearly exhausting himself. He just hoped the doctors would be able to help them. The type of poison they had taken was unknown; even Blackpool could find no sign of containers.
"All this, to win a war only they know about," said Malak, tiredly.
"There is no war, except in the minds of the paranoid," said Blackpool, sternly.
"Yes, but their numbers keep growing. They have enough influence in the press to misrepresent facts and activities in many publications and new programs. Once someone becomes convinced, the corrections in the remaining media outlets are either ignored or blamed on 'empowered dupes' or whatever."
"Surely you, of all people, aren't complaining about having to work long and hard," said Blackpool, making as close to a joke as he was likely to come.
"No. Of course not. It's just that there are so many other ways I could be using my abilities to help people."
* * *
Melody was glad to get home. She turned the key and pushed the door open. Her recent encounter with Blackpool meant that she did not just enter, but looked inside first. There were several men there, one of them waiting at the door. He lunged for Melody.
She kicked him in the shin and yanked the door closed. The key was still in the lock; she turned it, locking the deadbolt, yanked the key out and ran.
She hit the down button as she passed the elevator. At the end of the hall she shoved the door to the stairs open, then ducked into the laundry room and pushed the door closed as quietly as she could. She grabbed the knob with both hands and braced the door with her foot. Several sets of heavy footsteps went by, large men in a hurry. Then came a tell-tale ding. Melody waited for a moment, then yanked the door open and ran back towards the elevator.
The door was just opening. She ducked inside and hit the button for the ground floor. Someone still inside her apartment shouted, but the door closed before she could even see who it was.
On the ground floor she turned away from the front entrance and instead ran towards the manager's office.
"Mr. Harris, call the police..." she began, as she burst through his door.
More of those men were here; tall and broad shouldered and dressed in new suits which didn't seem to quite fit. Mr. Harris was on the floor, bleeding from a hole in his left temple.
Melody turned and fled, but literally ran into another one of the men. He didn't bother trying to be gentle, but hit her, hard, in the gut. Melody went down, retching. Two of them gathered her and dragged her towards the rear of the apartment building, losing her shoes in the process. She heard an odd sound, and realized it was a sudden burst of fire. Smoke was already starting to pour from the super's office as they turned a corner. She couldn't even shout a warning to the other residents.
Melody was dumped into a delivery truck at the rear loading dock. About half a dozen of those men jumped in, more hurrying to other cars as the rear doors of the truck closed. They began binding her as they drove away.
WARNING! This part is very dark and brutal.
The Angel of Chicago
Part Sixteen: Questions
by
Rodford Edmiston
The hood was yanked from around Melody's head, but the fiction burns the rough fabric produced were a minor discomfort compared to what she was already experiencing. She gasped for air, half suffocated by the thick cloth. She was already manacled, with the chain on those fastened to a heavy eye in a heavy metal table, which she soon realized was - like the metal chair in which she sat - bolted to the floor. Both had stains from blood and worse, as did the floor. She was in a concrete room with a bare bulb hanging on a wire overhead. One of those large, awkwardly dressed men sat across from her.
"Where were you?" he asked, in a low, emotionless tone.
"What?" said Melody, confused.
He punched her in the face. She dropped, brought up short by the chains. Two more men moved in from the shadows to roughly pull her back into position.
"Where were you?"
"I don't know what you..."
She saw the punch coming this time but couldn't dodge. The repositioning repeated.
"Where were you?"
"When?!" she gasped, cringing as he drew his fist back. "I want to answer but I don't know..."
Another punch.
"Where were you?"
This time she left her head on the table for a while. Through the haze of pain something about his voice seemed familiar. Then she realized what it was. She lifted her head, and gave him a grimace meant to be a smile.
"I get it now. You're empowered. You have the same sort of spoken charisma as Malak and Arielle... though not as strongly. That's why they have you ask the ques..."
She had wanted to get something back at him, perhaps even to cast doubt on his status with his companions or superiors. Melody immediately realized that her petty attempt at retaliation was worse than useless.
This time he didn't just punch her, he beat her, for several minutes. Then he heaved her onto the table and pulled down her panties. As he undid his belt Melody tried to scream, but could only manage a faint wail.
* * *
The angel entered the dark, stinking cell and moved immediately to the sole prisoner. She was dressed in tatters and laying on a hard bunk of rough planks. Sickened, he quickly moved to lay hands on her. Even as he did so, she stirred, looking up at him.
"What took you so long?" she managed to whisper, through broken teeth and shredded lips.
Malak healed her enough that she could survive the trip, then quickly gathered her in his arms and faded from sight. Her shackles fell noisily to the concrete floor.
* * *
"My God..." breathed Arielle, as she entered the room at the clinic, saw Melody and stopped, stunned. Even after multiple healings by her father and others, the sleeping reporter looked horrible. "What did..."
"Not now," said her father, quietly but firmly. "Save that for later. Right now, she needs you to be supportive. Most of her physical hurts have been healed and the rest soon will be, and I can heal her mind with help from others and time, but her spirit needs care I can't give."
Arielle nodded, and quietly moved in to sit by the bed of the still figure. She took the reporter's hand, and simply sat, holding her.
* * *
Melody was in and out of wakefulness over the next day and a half. She repeatedly woke screaming, then fell back asleep as soon as Arielle comforted her. Medical personnel - some of them empowered - tended her, healing her physical hurts until there was not even a bruise. Arielle knew the bulk of her recovery still lay ahead.
Finally, Melody fully woke, looking desperately around. She quickly realized she was safe, in part due to feeling Arielle holding her hand. The empowered woman was sound asleep, but had not let go. Melody hated to wake her, but beyond normal curiosity her reporter's instincts were producing an itch which demanded scratching. She lifted Arielle's hand and kissed it, and the older woman stirred.
"What... happened?"
"You really need to rest."
"Then just tell me what happened after... after you found me."
"You weren't the only one," said Arielle, quietly. "That place was being used to interrogate and then kill and dispose of anyone the conspirators found sufficiently annoying. My father and others rescued twelve more people and found several bodies they hadn't burned yet."
"Burned?!" said Melody, alarmed.
"They actually had a crematorium on site."
Suddenly, the magnitude of what she had been through hit her. Melody cried out, and lunged towards her love, who rose and hugged her.
"They... they took turns..."
"Shhhh, shhhhh..." said Arielle, rocking Melody in her arms. "Live in the here and now, focus on us."
"Wh-where's your father?" said Melody, after a while, sitting up and drying her eyes.
"If it's any consolation," said Arielle, sounding like she wanted to join them, "he and some friends are busy arranging Old Testament style retribution for some people who desperately deserve it."
* * *
"Two days," said Melody, amazed when Aaron spoke with her later. "They had me for two days. I barely remember the first two hours."
He didn't say that was probably a mercy.
Instead, Aaron leaned back in his chair and considered her for a moment. He had made a point of excluding Arielle from this session. He needed Melody to focus on him, at least for now. His daughter would be allowed back in as soon as they finished.
"I am very sorry we took so long to find you," he said, quietly. "Far more people than Blackpool and myself worked on finding you, both empowered and norm. Even though officially you died in the fire at your apartment building."
"How many others?" she whispered. "In the fire, I mean. I knew many of those living there..."
"They're still counting. Perhaps sixteen. There were fire and smoke alarms, but some are thought to have already been trapped on the upper floors by the time those sounded."
"Bastards," said Melody, spitting the word. She looked at him, her in that crisp, white bed, him in that old-fashioned but spotless white chair. "What about the others in that... dungeon?"
"Physically healed and being treated. Most were there longer than you, but most were not as intensively... questioned."
"Not funny," she snapped.
"Sorry. I wasn't trying to be funny. Just... diplomatic."
"You're very good at this," said Melody, after a moment. "Patient, caring, pushing just enough then backing off. I guess you've had a lot of experience."
"That I have," said Aaron, nodding. "As well as good training. There are always those hurting, from many causes. Including deliberate abuse."
"I just... don't understand what they wanted of me. They asked nonsense questions, and hurt me no matter what I answered."
She twisted the sheet in her hands, almost crying.
"I would have told them what I knew! None of it was secret! It was already in my articles!"
"The purpose of torture is not to gain information. It's to punish the person being questioned. Those... people had been given orders to deal with you. They were told who you were, where you were, and what vague questions their bosses had. Those questions simply being used to provide justification for the kidnapping and torture. The details of your capture, how they covered that up and how they questioned you were left to the men at that facility."
"Insane..." said Melody, shuddering.
"Yes. In a sense they are. Many torturers are convinced that they're doing good or even holy work, and claim to detest what the prisoners 'force' them to do. No matter how far they go in that work. Others have simply learned not to feel anything except accomplishment in doing their horrific jobs. It's a form of dissociation, often voluntary, sometimes innate."
"Insane," Melody repeated, heat in her voice.
"What's really insane," said Aaron, more quietly, "is that their bosses, knowing that their efforts were coming under scrutiny after the failure of the plot with the chemical repository, pulled back and cut off contact with most of their underlings. Including those at the dungeon. They gave no warnings, no additional orders to prepare those they abandoned for the lack of communication. The men at the bottom simply kept following the last orders they had received, since no-one had told them to stop."
Melody stared at him for a moment, then suddenly began weeping. Aaron wondered if he might have gone too far too quickly, but there was nothing for it now but to comfort her.
* * *
"You still haven't told me how you even knew to look for me," said Melody, during the next day's session.
"The main clue was that they burned the building," said Aaron, in a bitter tone. "Just like they did with Blackpool's. You were unaccounted for, the fire was arson by a rather sophisticated means... They couldn't even be bothered to come up with a different method to cover their tracks. This particular group had no concerns for those whom they left behind in a burning building, of course. No real thought for the consequences of their actions. They had been deliberately chosen by the conspirators for those specific qualities. More to add to the crimes of those in charge."
"So you two went looking for me."
"It wasn't just us. This matter has attracted the attention of empowered who normally don't get involved in mundane matters. Nineteen of them were looking not just for you; some of them were not even looking for you at all, but for others who were likewise kidnapped."
"Who knows that I'm alive?"
"Only those participating in the rescue, those here at the clinic and Arielle. We have not informed your boss or coworkers. That seemed like the wisest choice, to keep the conspirators in the dark."
Melody sighed and nodded.
"I think it's better if I stay missing for now," she said, though reluctantly.
Aaron nodded with her.
"With communications between the conspirators and the torture facility cut off, they probably don't even know it was found and destroyed."
"How much progress has been made finding the bosses?" said Melody, an odd earnestness in her tone.
"Considerable," said Aaron, with a trace of triumph. Though this quickly faded. "Unfortunately, so far we have nothing sufficient to give to prosecutors. Even if we did, some of those involved are high government officials and others are high military officials. We need to get people at least as high in the administration behind us to even have the conspirators investigated properly, much less prosecuted."
"We need to get to President Sandusky," said Melody, firmly.
"That is the consensus. However, his mind may have been poisoned against the empowered by his Chief of Staff. Simon Dundee is the most highly placed and most politically and practically powerful of the conspirators and he has the President's trust and confidence. With Dundee being so outspoken against the empowered, it will be difficult for any of us to even gain access to the President. Convincing him of the conspiracy - especially that a man he trusts is involved - will be even more difficult."
"What if it wasn't an empowered who made the pitch?" said Melody, looking thoughtful.
"Again, you echo our thoughts. However, you are too..."
"Consider it work therapy," said Melody, looking him on the eye. "Let's get to it!"
I'm sorry this is a bit late. I kept feeling dissatisfied and re-writing. It felt too passive. Finally, as I lay in bed waiting for sleep, I realized a solution. I started on it first thing this morning. This is the result.
The Angel of Chicago
Part Seventeen: Probative Action
by
Rodford Edmiston
The Chief of Psychiatrics caught up with Aaron in the staff breakroom of the clinic. He had planned to ask the empowered man to his office, but as soon as they saw him enter the other two people in the room quickly left. Deciding to take advantage of the opportunity, he moved directly to where Aaron was making coffee.
"You are pushing her irresponsibly hard!" said Dr. Raitken, his voice almost a hiss.
"I know that," said Aaron, quietly, moving in close. "Doctor, there are literally lives at stake. Besides, I believe keeping her out of this instead of letting her participate would put more strain on her."
"You're probably right," said Raitken, with a sigh, deflating a bit. "I just... There may be short term benefits to her involvement, but I fear there will be long term costs."
"If we're successful we should have time to deal with the long term," said Aaron, tone unconsciously ominous. "If we're not, well, we may not have a long term."
* * *
"We actually have allies among those assigned to protect the President," said Aaron. He, Melody, Arielle, Blackpool and several others were all meeting in his living room. Melody still looked - and occasionally sounded - fragile despite her show of determination, but there was no convincing her to rest. "They don't like Dundee's influence over him. That includes many Secret Service personnel. Some of whom have known Blackpool and others from the Empowered Matters Agency longer than they have known President Sandusky."
"So the Agency still hasn't told anyone outside that they're after Blackpool?" said CornFed. Deliberately contradicting her stereotypical code name, dress, demeanor and accent, she was arguably the best social analyst among those present.
"They have let it be known through my contacts that all is forgiven and to come in from the cold," said Blackpool, dryly. "I have learned through other channels that the Director is furious at one of his Assistant Directors and several staff members for their actions in this and related matters and that criminal charges are being pursued against some of them. Those investigations also addressing the disappearance and presumed murder of my supervisor."
"The bureaucracy is reacting faster than I expected," said Multi, who was synchronizing the brains in his several bodies to focus on this meeting. "More surprisingly, for the most part it is reacting appropriately."
"So how do we get in to see the President?" said Arielle.
"You don't," said Aaron. "None of us do. We need someone familiar with these events who is not empowered, who can make a good case in a short time."
"Me," said Melody, nodding.
"Perhaps. I would prefer someone not directly involved."
"You mean someone who hasn't recently been tortured by people connected to the conspiracy," said Melody, dryly. "Wouldn't that make my presentation more striking?"
"Such a strongly emotional appeal might backfire," said CornFed, head cocked slightly to one side. "Depending on the Sandusky's mood it could come off as hysterical and/or forced. Like a dramatic performance, rather than as sincere."
"So..." said Melody, not happy with that solution but willing to go along with it, "we need to find someone he knows and trusts who either is already informed about the situation and is sympathetic, or who is willing to learn about it, and have them present our case to Sandusky."
Names were suggested, with most being quickly rejected. At first Melody was in the thick of it, but she soon sat back and just listened.
"You all right?" said Arielle, quietly.
"Mostly," said Melody. She smiled tiredly and patted her love's hand. "Just... want to listen for a while."
The others talked. They argued. They paced. They ate refreshments provided by volunteers from Haven. While several potentially good candidates were proposed, Melody didn't hear the one she thought would be the best. Finally, she stood. Conversation faded as the other participants looked at her, puzzled.
"Vice President Duff," said Melody.
There was a stunned silence.
"He's anti-empowered!" said CornFed, hotly.
"No, he's not. I interviewed him a few months ago and he was irritated at how the press keeps misrepresenting his position. He's pro-civil rights in general. He just doesn't want the empowered to have any precedence due to their abilities. Oh, and the syndicate wouldn't accept my piece on him, so he has a point about the press."
She sat.
There was muted but intense discussion of this suggestion for a bit. Some liked the idea, some didn't. Melody thought it was time for the kicker. She glanced at Blackpool, and thought she saw just a hint of amusement through that infernal mask of his. She spoke up.
"Also, Blackpool saved his son's life about five years ago. Not long after they both started with their respective federal agencies."
"That's right," said Pseudo, nodding as he recalled this. "George Duff works for the Marshall's Service. Used to be a field agent, but focuses on legal matters these days."
A plan was quickly formed. Blackpool - on his own - and Melody - taken there by Malak after the empowered agent paved the way - would meet with the Vice President. He was currently on vacation at his family's ranch in Wyoming. Timing which those in this room now realized might have been used by the conspirators. "Paving the way" meant Blackpool making phone calls, the first one to George Duff.
"I hate cashing in favors," said Blackpool, as he waited for his call to the Marshall's Service to be transferred. "Especially for saving someone's life. However, given... Hello, George. I was just telling someone that I hated cashing in favors, but I need a big one from you."
* * *
"It's always who you know," said Melody, pacing nervously outside the rear entrance to the White House that night.
"Of course," said Malak, over the tiny radio in her left ear.
He was flying high cover. Other empowered were in the area, but surprisingly few, and they were keeping out of sight. They didn't want to alert the conspirators to their presence, or alarm those members of the White House who might not be on their side. There on the ground, waiting for clearance, were Vice President James Duff, Melody and Arielle. Only he would be allowed onto the White House grounds.
The plan involved a covert path to the President's study, where he was currently sitting with the lights off, as was his custom when he had deep thoughts to consider. This path was intended to avoid those on the staff allied with the Chief of Staff. With luck, Duff would be able to convince the President to at least consider further evidence.
As they waited, Melody considered the Vice President. He was nearly fifteen years younger than Sandusky, but already middle-aged. He was a country lawyer, and much was made of the similarities between him and Abraham Lincoln. There was even a physical resemblance. Unfortunately, he also had the same tendency to be misrepresented by his opponents, and even some of his allies.
The Veep was, of course, known to those guarding the President. However, they still carefully verified his identity. Then two of the Secret Service agents escorted him through the gate. The rest pointedly blocked Arielle's and Melody's way.
"Now we wait," said Melody, with a sigh.
She thought about engaging the Secret Service agents in conversation, but one look at their stern faces made her decide that could wait. Maybe a long time.
Arielle leaned in to Melody's ear.
"Do we have to wait here? They make me nervous."
"Well, yeah," said Melody, smirking. "Part of their training."
She sighed, and looked wistfully up at the White House.
"Wouldn't you love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation? They're making history!"
* * *
The Secret Service agent at the door to the study greeted Duff and the other agents as the trio approached.
"The Vice President, to see the President," said one of the escorts.
The man nodded, turned and nocked.
"Mr. Sandusky? You have a visitor."
There was no response. He repeated his actions and got the same result.
"Sorry, Joseph," said Duff, reaching past him. "This is important."
Inside, the only light was what came in through the curtains. Duff knew the way. He immediately realized this was something much deeper than the President's usual deep funk when faced with difficult matters.
"Theo, we need to talk."
There was no response. He had a sudden pang of concern that the old man might actually be dead. Duff quickly moved closer and turned on the reading lamp beside the chair. He was startled to see that the President had been crying. There was a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. Slowly, the man looked up at him with haunted eyes.
"They have her, George."
He held up the piece of paper.
Duff read it, aghast.
"I was going to fire Dundee. Hold a press conference and everything. I wrote the speech, had it typed, and when it was delivered that was on top."
"Have you verified..."
"She was supposed to be visiting her sister. She never arrived."
"I'll handle this, Theo," said Duff, voice tight with rage.
Those who had brought him here had given him a small radio set to the same frequency their ear bugs used. He reached into his pocket as he hurried to the door.
Those outside the study were startled when the Vice President yanked the door open. He was obviously furious.
"You need to hear this, too."
* * *
More time passed. Arielle paced up and down the sidewalk while Melody stood at the entrance, occasionally looking at her watch and sighing.
They both jumped at a sudden voice in their left ears.
"We have a serious problem," said Duff, over his com. "President Sandusky has no trouble believing me about Dundee. Because they have kidnapped Delores, the President's wife, while she was traveling to her sister's. The Chief of Staff and his partners are using her to blackmail him into silence."
"We're on it," said Malak.
"On it," said Blackpool.
"Shit," said Melody.
From the expressions on the Secret Service men at the gate, they had just received the same information.
"Bastards," muttered one of them.
The others nodded.
"Tell you what," said one of them, to Arielle and Melody, "given this information, if I see Dundee or any of his cronies, I'm willing to go ahead and arrest them. I've had enough of those pricks."
The other men and women in black nodded at that.
* * *
"Is there any chance she's one of those already rescued?" said Melody, after another half hour.
"I imagine they'll check them first," said Arielle. "Some of the people the various groups rescued were still being identified, last I heard. Some had been so heavily drugged they were still out, and none had any ID on them. If she's not with them, maybe Blackpool will know some more places to look."
"I'm not feeling hopeful," said Melody.
They both looked around at a sudden if subtle change in the attitudes of the Secret Service personnel. Several actually put their hands to their ears. Their coms were not a subtle as those Melody and Arielle were wearing, but they were still effective. Several of the men and women now looked relieved. A few actually smiled.
The senior agent on the scene approached them.
"They found her. The President just got a call, and Mrs. Sandusky actually spoke to him briefly. She's had a hard time - especially for someone her age - but she's safe and will be coming home soon."
Melody and Arielle hugged each other and bounced around in an joint dance of triumph.
"I can't believe it was this easy!" said the empowered woman.
Melody was about to chide her for thinking this was over when Arielle suddenly tensed. Then she spun around, so hard Melody was actually hurt a bit by the sudden move. There was a thump and a gasp from the taller woman... and she slumped.
"Sniper!" yelled one of the Secret Service men.
Two of them pulled Melody to safety, actually dragging her through the gate and down. She, in turn, would not release Arielle, so they wound up getting pulled into cover together. The agents who protecting the two visitors quickly set to work.
"No respiration," said one, checking at Arielle's throat. "No pulse."
As Melody watched, stunned, the two men began CPR. She suddenly realized she needed to call for help.
"Aaron? Anyone? Can you hear me? Arielle is down, shot. The Secret Service say there's a sniper on the roof of the Hay-Adams Hotel. Can you hear me?! She needs help!"
"Melody!" said CornFed. "Listen, they're out of range. Just... hang on until we can get someone there who can heal!"
The Angel of Chicago
Part Eighteen: Aftermath
by
Rodford Edmiston
There were no empowered healers who could get there quickly. None, in fact, were known who could be there any time within the next several hours. Malak and Blackpool were both out of touch, but expected back soon. Meanwhile, Arielle would have to depend on mundane medicine.
Melody watched, numbly, as she and Arielle were taken to a side entrance by a circuitous route, under cover the whole way. They would dash to a place of safety, and the first two agents would resume CPR while others checked the route ahead; then they would repeat. They moved quickly and competently, and the entire trip took only a few minutes... though it felt like hours. Once through the entrance they were hustled down some stairs and into an infirmary, where proper doctors waited with proper equipment. Melody didn't see the sniper located, cornered and then choosing to jump rather than face capture. She didn't learn until later that several snipers had been hastily placed in vantage points around the White House shortly after the Vice President was seen entering the building. She barely noticed when the team working on Arielle finally called the code and pulled the sheet over her face. She just sat there, a rock in the slow stream of human movement as the exhausted people who had tried to save her love dealt as best they could with their failure.
Finally, Malak came ghosting into the underground room, not caring that he gave those present the frights of their lives. That finally roused Melody, and she quickly rose. Malak hurried to the covered form, ripped the sheet back and lay hands on his daughter. Several long seconds passed. Melody prayed for his healing to work, willed it to work with all her being. Eventually, though, he sagged, and sobbed.
Melody found herself having to catch a man with thirty foot wings and try to support him. None of the others in the room moved, until she turned and glared at them. Then they rushed in. Malak was eased onto a chair hastily pulled out from a wall far enough for his wings to clear, though the tips still pushed up from the floor and the elbows down from the ceiling. That must have at the very least been uncomfortable, but he didn't seem to notice.
"She saved my life," said Melody, kneeling in front of Malak to take both of his hands. "She... must have seen the muzzle flash from the sniper's rifle, and spun us around..."
He looked up at her and smiled. It was weak and sickly, but at least he tried.
"You made her happy."
He sighed, sobered and stood. Malak looked into a distance only he could see.
"There is still much to do. People are still in danger. People I can help."
Melody jumped to her own feet and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders.
"Listen to me! Stop holding it in! You just lost your daughter! If you don't let it out you're going to explode!"
He stared at her, eye to eye, for a long moment. Then, with a wail of pure grief, he fiercely hugged her. As Melody had so often seen him do to Arielle, he wrapped her in his arms and wings. He wept, loudly and unashamedly, for a very long time.
* * *
The White House saw many violations of both custom and regulation that night. The President and Vice President were both staying there, though neither slept much. There were several unexpected guests, any one of whom would normally have been kept well away from any high government official. Multiple members of the staff were rounded up and held, pending arrest and dispersal to widely separated federal holding facilities in the morning. The investigation would clear some, of at least the worst of the charges, but others would spend the rest of their lives in prison. Some White House personnel were simply put on extended leave, but warned to stay available.
Melody was roused by one of the maids in the middle of the next morning and informed that she might want to watch a special press conference on the 3V. When she realized what was about to happen, she quickly woke Aaron, in his adjoining room.
He was quiet, and barely spoke. However, he allowed her to pressure him into making himself presentable. While they waited she ordered breakfast for both of them and made sure Aaron ate at least the bare minimum. Soon after the dishes arrived in Aaron's room and were placed on their trays, the all-channel broadcast began.
The production showed the haste of its organization. However, there was also a palpable atmosphere of gravitas. Even before the President appeared the announcers were speaking in low voices, sounding concerned.
Sandusky stepped out onto the stage and walked - with straight back and sombre face - to the podium. He had no notes, and the stand was plain wood, with no teleprompter. He glanced around the room for a moment, evaluating his immediate audience; then he looked directly ahead at the main camera.
"My friends, I am sad to inform you that my own Chief of Staff, Simon Dundee, was a major participant in a plot to overthrow the government of these United States. I am embarrassed that I trusted the man, and even more embarrassed that when I was finally convinced of his crimes and made an attempt to do something about them, he was able to intimidate me into passivity. The crisis has now passed - in large part due to the efforts of my friend and Vice President, James Duff, who acted when I couldn't - and nearly all the conspirators have been arrested. However, I now realize that I am not fit to be your President. The President of the United States must represent all her people, not just a favored few. Not just their own family and friends. Not just those in the majority. All the people. I have found, to my distress, that I am no longer - if I ever was - capable of this. I have therefore tendered my resignation. James Duff will be sworn in as President as soon as I am finished here."
There was a muted swell of sound in the room; something more wordless exclamations than questions or comments. Sandusky waited for that to quiet, then continued on for a few more minutes.
No further details were given of the plot, except to mention that the attempt on the chemical repository was part of it, and that this had been foiled by courageous volunteers, most of whom were empowered.
Sandusky closed by saying a final farewell as President, then walked off the stage. Those performing the public swearing-in ceremony for Duff then came out.
Perhaps because this entire production - from resignation to oath of office - was done so quickly, there was no objection or interruption. When the swearing-in was completed, the room filled with applause. It was muted at first, but soon rose in volume and enthusiasm. President Duff moved to the podium and waited for a moment, then called for quiet.
Overall, the following speech was not dramatic nor especially memorable. He did make a point of stating, firmly, that DNA testing in criminal investigations - long derided as too unreliable - would now be required for certain types of cases. Melody realized with a shock that this was due to her and those others who had been so misused by the torturers.
When it was over, Melody rose and turned off the 3V. Then she looked at Aaron.
"Did we win? Because it sure doesn't feel like it."
"We won," he said, quietly but surely. "Not the war, but a significant battle."
He sighed, and rubbed his face, understandably looking very haggard.
"No victory is without cost. This one cost more than most. Perhaps even... more than we can spare."
* * *
Somehow, Melody found herself back at Aaron's home in Haven that afternoon. She was alone, wandering around the house, feeling pangs of grief at reminders of being there with Arielle. She wanted to find Aaron, to be consoled by him, and help him as he had helped her, but he was not to be seen. At least inside the house.
Outside she saw people looking at the roof. There was Aaron, gazing sightlessly out over the seemingly endless fields. Melody sighed - from a mixture of exasperation, relief, fatigue and a few other things - and went back inside. She pulled down the overhead door, unfolded the ladder, went into the sizable attic and then through the hatch.
Once out on the roof Melody simply sat beside her host. They watched the wind blow through the fields, moving the crops in waves. They watched the birds circling. They watched the Sun move towards the horizon.
"I have been coasting," said Aaron, finally, breaking the long silence.
Melody wasn't startled; she had sensed him rousing himself. Now he shook his head, and gave a deep sigh.
"I had all this power early on, and for a while consciously and unconsciously worked at improving it. Improving myself."
He looked at her, now.
"That's the secret of empowerment. It gives those it affects the ability to change themselves. For most people it is purely unconscious, but it can be deliberate. We become what we want, if we work hard enough for that."
He returned his gaze to the infinite.
"I haven't been doing that. I thought I had enough. I invested myself instead in this town and its people. That has to change. I have to change. I must become stronger, to do what needs to be done."
"Aaron..." She put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You're frightening me."
"I'm frightening myself. What frightens me most, though, is not being able to help because I'm weak. That will change. It has to."
* * *
For the US government, for the citizens of that nation, for the world as a whole, the next few days were full of uncertainty. This wasn't aided by those who claimed the transfer of power to Duff was the actual coup, with Dundee being a victim of that. This came in part from those who were sympathetic to the cause of the true conspirators, and in part from those who expected anything out of DC to be a lie.
The market dropped a huge amount, then began slowly recovering. The news agencies began revealing what had actually happened, or at least what they were able to learn about the recent events. Even those individuals and agencies with a history of sympathy towards the causes of the conspirators for the most part kept their coverage neutral. Melody was a bit surprised to see her rejected column on Duff now given national - and even limited international - coverage. The decision to do this being made before she revealed her continued existence to her boss and coworkers. While she and the others directly involved were asked to keep much of the events of that night at the rear of the White House secret, there were some things they could reveal.
The nation could not simply go back to how things had been, however. Some parts of the overall situation were better, some were worse, some merely different. Only a few were unchanged. This state of change was driven home a few days after the death of Arielle when James Duff had a request for a meeting from one of those instrumental in him becoming President.
Aaron walked in, escorted by unusually deferential (though still professional) Secret Service personnel. He and the President shook hands and the latter offered Aaron a seat. Aaron politely declined.
"I won't be here long," said Aaron, his expression revealing nothing as the new President sat back down behind that huge desk. "I want to first offer my congratulations. The Oval Office looks good on you."
"Thank you," said the new President, appearing honestly modest. "I admit I was hoping to be President some day, but I didn't want to come into office like this."
"Second," said Aaron, his tone now more stern, "I want to warn you. It's going to be different from now on. Empowered are much less tolerant of abuse after this, much less likely to toe a line they see as unfair. Many have already said that they will not hide any longer, that they will no longer keep a low profile. As well as that when their empowerment becomes known they will not register with the government."
"That's... worrying," said Duff, looking tired. "Though not surprising."
"There will be protests, civil disobedience, and most likely violence. As always, many of us empowered will do what we can to rein in the abuses of other empowered. We will also - as before - do what we can to protect other empowered. However, we have never been enough in number or ability to stop everything. There are only a few more of those willing to participate in such exercises, these days, while there are many more willing to act out."
"That could very easily backfire."
"We are very aware of that. Most people - empowered or not - are. However, they're also tired - we're tired - of being scapegoats."
"This is a social issue," said President Duff, firmly, "not a technical one. It will require a social solution. Changes in the law and in the rules, regulations and procedures will help, but can't do it all. Society, itself, must change. We've done that before and you have my word we will make our best attempt to do it again, and do it right. However, it will be neither quick nor easy."
"You have my word that as long as you are sincerely trying I - along with most empowered - will also do my - our - best to work within the system. However, time and patience are running out. I fear many will not be willing to wait much longer."
With that, he turned and walked out of the Oval Office.
There you have it. This was an experiment, and I don't know if I will revisit this universe. While it told a unique story about unique characters it did also include themes which are common with me. Including things from my Gifted Saga stories.
I hope folks enjoyed it. It was darker than my usual material, though not as persistently dark as originally intended.