Firedrake - Volume Two

by T. Mike McCurley

“I’m ugly? Seen a fifty-foot mirror lately?” Drake taunted, bringing his wings in close and building speed as he raked a set of talons across the man’s face. Foot-long lacerations appeared in the oily skin.

  Soundstage proved she was back in the fight with another focused sonic attack that was horrendous enough to make Drake wince. He looked over to where Sangre stood. The black-clad booster nodded in understanding as he shouted his request.

  “Restraints!” he yelled, sweeping an arm forward toward the massive man.

  As though Drake himself was commanding their motion, yards of twisted debris slithered across the ground and wrapped themselves around the legs of the giant, looking for all the world like colossal metal snakes. They intertwined and rolled on themselves in a fluid motion that nonetheless carried with it horrific creaking sounds as the tortured metal bent to the magnetic forces Sangre manipulated.

  “You stupid son -” the giant began, but he never finished. He was trying to move forward, and the ropes of steel ensnared his feet. He fought for a brief second in an attempt to regain his composure and balance, but failed. A terrified scream rent the air as he began to fall, arms flailing aimlessly in a futile attempt to right himself.

  “Clear the area!” Soundstage bellowed through her speakers. Any of the emergency crews that had not already fled dropped what they were doing and started running in a desperate attempt to get out of the way before the building-sized booster landed atop their positions.

  The ground shuddered as the enormous figure slammed face-first onto the pavement. Two fire trucks and an ambulance vanished beneath his bulk. Clouds of dust billowed up from the concussion of his impact, and what few windows remained in the surrounding city block cracked with the transmitted force. The nearby police cars leaped six inches into the air and crashed back down. His head slammed into the front of the cigar store through which he had earlier thrown a stop sign, and brown eyes the size of televisions rolled back in the sockets as consciousness fled from the behemoth. Drool ran from his mouth in a veritable river.

  “That’s got him,” Sangre reported from her vantage point. Her arms dropped back by her side and she slumped against the blue frame of a mailbox as her efforts caught up to her.

  Drake dropped unceremoniously to the ground beside her, slipping a strong arm beneath her thin frame and lifting her to her full height. He looked at the emerald eyes that peeked from within her mask, winking at her as he saw that she was all right.

  “Let’s go kick him while he’s down,” he joked, easily lifting Sangre into his arms. In the street beside the fallen giant, Soundstage was touching down on screaming jets of energy. She looked as though she had been in a blender, but ignored her own appearance long enough to check on the emergency crews. Those that had been injured were being tended to by those who had not, and she was content to go examine the body of their opponent.

  The man had begun to shrink, and Soundstage wondered aloud if his ability was only functional while conscious. It took less than a minute for him to reach the size of a normal human. Drake slipped a pair of durite cuffs from his belt and cinched them down tightly onto the hairy wrists.

  “What was his problem, anyway?” he asked of the surrounding officers. Across the street from him, the reporters that had arrived to film the battle were beginning to move in. They seemed reluctant to approach Drake, and he had no problem being pleased about that.

  “Had a thing about the bank. Word on the initial call is that he was causing a disturbance inside. We got here and he went nuts on us. When we tried to hook him up, he started growing. Tore right out of his clothes and kept on getting bigger. We figured it’d be best to get some help in here,” said one of the officers. He had a foot-long tear in his uniform shirt, and a rapidly-swelling black eye.

  Most of the reporters and police circled around Soundstage and Sangre, the two boosters with whom they were familiar, and many actively avoided the reptilian booster that towered above them. Drake, in turn, freely ignored them and returned his attention to his prisoner. He snagged a blanket from one of the EMS crews and covered the man, then knelt on the pavement and waited for the first flicker of consciousness to show on the dirty face.

  “My name’s Drake. I’m a Federal Agent,” he said to the man when the eyelids began to flicker open. A low moan made its way from the man’s throat in response to the quiet voice.

  “Here’s the deal,” Drake continued. “I put my cuffs on you, slick. They’re made out of durite, so if you try to grow again, you’re gonna cut your hands off. Now I don’t know how pissed off you really are, so if that’s what you want, then go ahead. But I wouldn’t recommend it. That’ll make it real hard to hold a fork in the prison cafeteria.”

  “Want….want to go home,” groaned the man. Tears ran from his eyes as he spoke.

  “Well, that’s gonna be a problem,” Drake said. He stood and motioned to the officers. “These gentlemen are going to take you somewhere to get you checked out and then we’ll be transporting you to a Federal holding facility.”

  The man sounded confused when he asked, “Facility for what?”

  “For people who eat bank managers,” Drake responded with a smile. His tone was patronizing. “It’s okay. There’s a bunch of folks there. You’ll make lots of new friends.”

  Turning away, he rolled his eyes and made a snorting sound. He left the crying man in the custody of several police officers and walked over to drop a heavy hand on Soundstage’s shoulder as she provided a statement to the reporters that had thronged around the boosters and police following the incident. She turned to look at him, the crystal eyes as impassive as always, though Drake could practically feel the smile on her face beneath the helmet. He guided her away from the clamoring media presence to speak alone with her.

  “If this is how you spend your days, kid, I think I’m going back to work,” he said.

  “Aww, come on. It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  “Hey, I was supposed to be on vacation,” he replied with a chuckle.

  “Yeah? Why do I get the feeling this was the closest you’ve ever been to one of those?” she asked.

  “Well, it has been a while,” he admitted.

  “Tell you what,” she offered, holding up a chromed index finger. “Lady Justice Day is coming up. I’ll take you out for some real Texas barbecue if you’ll hang around through then.”

  Drake made a show of looking up, as though he were thinking hard on the offer, then broke out into a grin. “Sounds like fun. It’s a deal,” he said. He then leaned in close, whispering so no one else could possibly overhear. “Partly ’cause I like the company, but mostly ’cause I wanna see you try to eat through the helmet.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  -February 12-

  -Atlanta, Georgia, 0243 hours-

  Tossing and turning in his bed, caught in the throes of yet another nightmare, the man known to the world as Patriot knocked the lamp from his bedside table to the floor. The crashing sound woke him with a start and he looked around the room, unable for a second to discern his whereabouts. He looked to the space beside him in the bed, expecting for just a moment to find Shae Ling lying there, but it was empty and cold. He took a deep breath to calm himself as he thought of the fights that had led her to leave. In the end, his inflexibility and inability to forget the horrors of his own past had made it easy for her. After a while, their relationship had spiraled rapidly into a pit of anger and neglect.

  As usual, she had been a focal point in his nightmares. Captured by one genebooster criminal or another, she was tortured as a means to draw him out. In his dreams he was unable to move or speak, and was forced to watch as all manner of cruelty was inflicted on the woman whom, In spite of their differences, he still loved.

  Smacking his mouth to clear the taste of his sleep, he sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the box of Marlboros from the table. He lit it with a chromed Zippo that had been given to him by Henry Kissinger and sucked the hot smoke deep into his lungs. As he ex
haled the first lungful, he became aware of a presence in the room that he had somehow missed. Standing and turning toward the bathroom, he saw her for the merest fraction of a second, framed by the bathroom door. The vision made his breath catch in his throat.

  “Alicia?” he whispered, voice cracking. He fumbled for the lamp, remembering suddenly that he had knocked it onto the floor. He grabbed for it and flicked at the switch, bathing the room in harsh white light that made him blink madly for a moment as his eyes adjusted. When he could see, he looked again, but she was gone.

  Placing the lamp once more on the table, he walked across the thick scarlet carpet to the telephone that rested on a table. Punching in a series of numbers, he waited until the sleepy voice on the other end answered.

  “I saw her,” he said bluntly.

  “Angelo?” asked the voice. It held a slight trace of a French accent. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. Two, three maybe.”

  “Great. Thanks so much for the alarm clock. Now who did you see?”

  “Alicia. She was here in my room.”

  “Christ. She’s dead, Angelo. She’s been dead for twenty-five years.”

  “You remember the day after we stopped Firebrand? That dinner at the White House?” he said insistently, pacing about the room with the receiver held between his shoulder and his ear.

  “Yes, I remember,” the voice said, sounding bored and still very tired.

  “She wore that white outfit with the scales of justice on the front?”

  “Yes, I remember. But what does that have -?”

  “That’s what she was wearing. I saw her, Emile, and now she’s gone.”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone as Emile digested what he had just been told. A moment later, a huge sigh was audible in Patriot’s ear.

  “I can not deal with this right now, Angelo. It is almost her day. Lady Justice Day, remember? Of course you are seeing her. We are all thinking about her, especially those of us who worked with her. You, more than anyone, need to relax. Think about what you have just come through. This near-fatal attack by an unseen foe, the cure that monsieur Drake said was magical, and now the agreement to perform on stage at the Lady Justice parade? Of course you are seeing her!”

  “It has nothing to do with any of that,” Patriot protested, but Emile cut him off before he could continue.

  “Listen. Some of us took a long time to come to terms with what happened. I spent years in therapy trying to put it behind me, and now I am hearing that you saw, what, her ghost?”

  “I am not crazy!” Patriot declared, voice rising as he gripped the phone tightly enough that it began to creak.

  “I did not say you were,” Emile soothed. “I meant only that…look, just let me get some sleep, all right? I will meet you there. Seven sharp, as agreed. Meantime, you need to rest yourself.”

  “Okay,” Patriot agreed after a moment. His grip relaxed on the receiver.

  “Excellent. Now go back to bed,” Emile ordered as he broke the connection.

  Patriot looked at the dead phone in his hand for a moment, then set it back on its cradle and padded back to his bed. Flicking ashes from his cigarette into the immense marble ashtray on the nightstand, he reclined on his pillow and stared fixedly at the bathroom. Almost an hour passed, and except for smoking another cigarette, he did not even move. After assuring himself that the vision would not repeat itself, he stood from the bed and placed another call.

  *****

  -February 12-

  -Austin, Texas, 1122 hours-

  The image on the computer screen flickered once as Drake hammered a massive fist onto the table that supported the monitor. He snarled an obscenity in case the physical expression of his anger proved insufficient.

  “I got plans,” he declared, gritting his teeth.

  “Yes, I am certain you have,” replied Colleen Hart. She was being streamed live onto the computer utilized by the Austin geneboosters in whose house Drake was staying. “I can be that certain because I am in charge of making those plans. You have been unavailable to us for too long, Agent Drake, and it is obvious you are not really ‘taking some time off‘, as you put it. That little scenario with the enlarging pervert made CNN, you know.”

  “Yeah? I hope you taped it for me.”

  “My point is this, Agent,” Hart said, unwilling to take the verbal bait he dangled before her. “Your employment here is on an as-needed basis. Right now, you are needed. And that means that you will, immediately and forthwith, vacate the position in Austin and be airlifted to Atlanta for your new assignment. I will brook no argument on the subject,” she added, glaring harshly at him.

  “Argue on this,” he muttered, gesturing down to below his own camera feed.

  “Are you quite through?” she asked. Her tone was icy, though the involuntary shiver of disgust that ran through her body in response to his intimation was not lost on Drake.

  “Almost,” he said, refusing to concede the game at this early stage. “One question, though: Why me?”

  “Because he needs muscle,” she replied.

  “Who needs muscle?” he asked. “And it better not be that goofy little monkey with the pink eyes again.”

  “Patriot.”

  Drake’s yellow eyes snapped wide open and he sat forward with a sudden jerk of motion, threatening to collapse the metal desk chair he occupied.

  “He needs muscle? We are talking about the same guy, right? Patriot? Make sure it’s the same one,” he continued with enthusiastic sarcasm, talking over her quiet attempts to confirm his suspicions. “Big guy, blue suit, flies around, knocked down half the goddamned buildings in Iran? The one who is supposedly completely healed now? Healed because I risked my scaly ass to get him a cure? That Patriot? He needs muscle?”

  “Yes,” she said simply, content to wait him out as he ranted.

  “Patriot needs muscle!” Drake laughed into the air, pointedly not speaking to Hart but keeping his face close enough to the camera that there was no question she would hear. “He needs muscle, so you call me in. What’s up, slick? Annihilator busy this time?”

  “You saw to that, if I recall,” she replied, eyes narrowing dangerously.

  “I just offered him the chance to get away from you. Figured it was just a matter of time before you tried to get him naked.”

  That comment brought a slow measured response from the other end of the transmission. Every word dripped with barely-suppressed hostility and a promise of imminent death that had intimidated more than one powerful booster.

  “Your assignment is to assist him in whatever way he sees fit. Do your job.”

  Drake locked gazes with her, unwilling to succumb to her fury. The presence of the computer separated him from the pheromones her Emerged system generated, making it possible to remain looking at her so.

  “I don’t blink, by the way,” he said after a full minute. “Not unless I want to.” Rather than respond vocally, Hart snapped off the transmission. The screen where she had been displayed faded to a neutral grey in color.

  “This just blows,” Drake muttered.

  “Rain check on the parade, huh?” Soundstage asked from her position behind the computer screen. Her voice, despite being mechanically-altered, still conveyed more than a measure of sorrow at the thought.

  * * * * *

  -February 13-

  Brooklyn, New York, 0130 hours-

  Saul Rosenberg maintained a tight schedule. Rain, snow, sleet, sunshine, holiday or weekend, none of them changed his pattern. Today would be no different. It had not for the past decades. Awakened at one-thirty in the morning by the buzzing of his alarm clock, he rose from bed, padded into the tiny kitchen of his cramped apartment, and started a pot of coffee. Once the brewing had begun, he showered, shaved, and dressed. He had a pattern for that as well: socks, underwear, slacks, shirt, shoes. Once finished with that, he would help himself to a cup of coffee and take five minutes to relax before his day really began
.

  Out the door by two, and with a Thermos of coffee to warm him at work, he bicycled the four blocks to the small shanty of a newsstand on the corner of Oak and Harris streets. By two thirty it was open and lit with a soft glow of electric lamps. Within fifteen minutes the dailies would arrive, and Saul was always ready in advance. When the trucks pulled up, he greeted them with the usual high spirits and jovial banter. His knife, handles worn smooth from years of use, split the bindings around the early edition of the Times, and the headlines there brought back bittersweet memories of years long gone.

  “LADY JUSTICE DAY” read the headline, as it always did on this day. Saul smiled and raised his eyes to the heavens as if seeking a long-lost friend.

  “We loved you,” he whispered to the night sky before returning to the task at hand.

  Saul continued to stack his papers as his mind flashed back those twenty-plus years. The turmoil in the streets as it was announced that Lady Justice had been assassinated. The international manhunt that ensued, with geneboosters from every country going on a rampage of interrogations in an attempt to find the unknown killer. The declarations of martial law that had brought the country to a near-standstill. Finally, the tapering off of the violence and the resumption of normalcy that followed, despite the questions that lingered.

  “Mornin’, Saul!” called a driver, interrupting Saul’s reverie as the youth in the rear of his truck threw out a stack of The Herald. The old man smiled and nodded.

  “Happy Lady Justice Day!” added the kid in the back of the truck, waving merrily. He wore a lime-green sweatshirt with a cheaply-applied image of Lady Justice on the front. The wrinkles, Saul noticed, made her look as she had on that morning they found her in the alley.

  “Yeah, you too,” he replied automatically. He wondered why, on this day of mourning, people still wished him a happy day.

  “Twenty-five years and no one to blame,” he muttered to himself as the truck rumbled away. Sniffing back a tear, he grabbed for the stack and continued his routine. As he placed papers on the sale racks, he offered up a silent prayer that the events of that February morning twenty-five years ago would not be forgotten.