* * * * *
-February 13-
-Atlanta, Georgia, 0313 hours-
Preparations for the annual Lady Justice Day Parade were underway in full force. Similar parades and gatherings were scheduled for locations around the globe, but none were as meaningful as those of Atlanta, where the body of the Lady had been found. All leave time had been cancelled for the Atlanta Police Department as well as other emergency service agencies. Ambulances and fire trucks staged along the stretch of Peachtree that had been closed between Ponce DeLeon and Tenth. Police officers coordinated with elements of the National Guard to provide security which, as always on this day, was incredibly tight.
Officers on horseback and bicycle patrolled the parade route, aided by the dozens of men and women who paced about on foot. Some of those were uniformed and some were not, though all were linked to a central Command Post via closed-cell radio transmitters. Heavy weapons were the rule of the day, and any uniformed officer was carrying either a short automatic rifle or shotgun as their primary arm. Those in plainclothes were packing Uzi and Ingram submachine guns beneath the jackets that both shielded them from the morning chill and concealed their heavy armor.
At the head of the parade route, soldiers lounged on the frame of an armored personnel carrier. An identical APC was positioned at the end of the route. Each could carry enough arms and personnel to deal with a situation of violence in mere heartbeats, providing that violence was wrought by civilians and not the geneboosters that inevitably flocked to the event. In anticipation of that contingency, a platoon of US Navy SEALs sat in readiness in a location undisclosed to the public, armed to the teeth with the most fearsome of weapons and ready to deploy at a second’s notice.
Vendors had been allowed in during the night, each carefully screened and escorted to their allowed spaces, where they began the painstaking but hurried task of assembling their tents and trailers to sell food and souvenirs to the crowds that would soon throng the streets. Soon, the smells of cooking meat and heated sugar drifted to provide a carnival-like atmosphere even in the darkness.
For all those present, it looked to be the start of a wonderful day.
* * * * *
-February 13-
-Airborne over Louisiana, 0331 hours-
Drake was stretched across two sets of the webbing material that served as seats in the C-130. The vibration of the plane was almost pleasant beneath him, but it did not serve to lessen the dark mood into which Hart’s assignment had placed him. Only one thing could, and he was trying it now. He held the cell phone to his ear as he spoke into it.
“Just watch the TV,” he said, lips stretching into a smile. “I’m gonna be up on stage with Patriot.”
The answering squeal of delight was so loud it made him jerk the phone away from his ear for a moment until Monster had a chance to calm down a bit.
“Are you really?” crowed the voice of his little brother.
“Yeah, buddy. I mean it. He asked for me to come help him. You watch the show. I’ll wave at you.”
“Will you get Patriot to wave, too?”
“Yeah, I’ll get Patriot to wave, too,” Drake promised.
Monster cheered again, and Drake endured the volume. “Let me talk to Sala,” he requested after a moment.
“Okay. Bye, Francis,” Monster said, and Drake tensed himself for the sound of the call to disconnect. It was almost routine for the younger of the Drakes to hang up prematurely when asked to let someone else speak. When the soft voice of the woman Drake knew was tougher than most pro football players came on the line, it was almost a surprise.
“Drake?”
“Hey, Sala. Do me a favor and tape today’s broadcast from Atlanta. It’s probably gonna be the only time I’ll be seen with Patriot, and the kid should be able to see it whenever he wants.”
“Is that pride I hear?” teased the woman. “You make it to the big leagues and you want me to believe you’re taping it for Chris?”
“Actually, I am,” Drake said, his mind flashing back to images of Patriot lying supine on a laboratory table. “Let’s just say I’m not as star-struck as he is. Not any more.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll tape it. You owe me, though. I still am kind of star-struck, and I want an autograph.”
Drake grinned widely. “You got it. I’ll sign a napkin for you,” he said, snapping shut the cell and chuckling.
* * * * *
-February 13-
-Brooklyn, New York, 0649 hours-
Saul settled back in his chair, pouring himself a cup of coffee and nodding occasionally to the meager handful of customers who snagged a paper on the way to work. It had been an emotionally exhausting morning as he saw the dozens of headlines about Lady Justice Day. For some reason, it seemed to be affecting him more than ever this year. He reached out to the small bag attached to his bicycle and flipped open the leather case, extracting a Sony WatchMan television that was his only concession to high technology. Even it was five years old. Extending the antenna with only a mild muttered curse as a section of the telescoping tubes caught, he flicked on the power and propped it up where it could easily be seen from his chair.
“…coverage from Atlanta, Georgia, where the preparations are being completed for the annual Lady Justice Day parade,” the speaker said in a tinny crackle. As the screen warmed up, it displayed a reporter in a blue windbreaker. He was speaking into a microphone, his face a mask of professional grace even as the wind around him whipped his hair in all directions seemingly at once.
“This year’s featured speaker is the legendary Patriot, who viewers will remember for the battles he fought at Her side. Patriot will be making a speech about the sacrifices Lady Justice made for Her country, as well as honoring Her position as the first genebooster to ever Emerge.”
The screen shifted to a grainy series of images shot in 1963, as the girl that would one day be known as Lady Justice made history. The footage was familiar to most viewers around the world, but was shown again every year on this date. Saul sat back and watched it again as if seeing it for the first time: the horrific collision on Interstate 35 in Dallas, Texas, captured by a news crew from WFAA-TV en route back to their office after shooting a piece on the mayor. The tiny girl pinned beneath the heavy overturned Pontiac, crying out as the massive car crushed the life from her. Men rushing from their cars to help, only to run back screaming in terror as the girl flexed her muscles and lifted the car from her body. The fear in the voice of the reporter as the twelve-year-old bent at the waist and almost effortlessly lifted the wrecked car off the bleeding bodies of her parents, then threw it a hundred feet down the road.
“That, ladies and gentlemen, was the very first Emergence,” the reporter said reverently as the camera feed clicked to him once more. He had used the time to smooth his hair, a futile gesture considering the wind. “But it was not the last time we would hear from Lady Justice. Today, we gather here to remember what she represented, and to honor Her memory.”
The station cut back to the studio shot, and Saul’s aged face wrinkled up in distaste as he recognized the usual insipid morning-show hosts. Both wore black armbands, but they seemed to regard them more as fashion accessories than as a gesture of respect. Their plastic smiles more than overshadowed the seriousness of the day, leaving a sour taste in Saul’s mouth. He took a sip from the coffee cup to cover the flavor.
“Hey, Saul. How ya doin’?” greeted a voice from the counter. Saul looked up to see Mick Ashton standing at the front of his kiosk, a copy of the Times in his powerful hand. Only his eyes and blue uniform hat were visible above the paper as he scanned the front page, but Saul had spoken to the police officer nearly every day for the past four years, ever since Ashton had been assigned to walk a beat in the neighborhood.
“Mick, I been better,” he replied, wiping a drop of coffee from the corner of his mouth and shuffling over to stand at the counter. He leaned his slight frame against a support pole. “You?”
> “Ahh, had a fight with Susie last night. Spent the night on the couch. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Saul said with a wistful smile.
“So what ya think there, Saul? Lady Justice Day and all. Gonna be busy?” the officer asked pointedly. Saul smiled. For years now, Mick had come to Saul to ask how the day would go ever since his training officer had mentioned that the old man had made an off-handed comment about the day ‘feeling wrong’ one day in November of 1995. That day had ended in terror for New York and three other states as the genebooster called Annihilator had gone on a rampage, randomly flying to populated areas and attacking.
“Son, it’s Lady Justice Day. Even the crazy boosters play nice today, out of respect for Her.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Ashton said, passing over a dollar. He folded the newspaper and tucked it under his left arm. “Hope you’re right,” he added with a wink and a wiggle of his eyebrows that belied his statement.
“Don’t you go looking for trouble, Mick Ashton,” warned the old man in a mock-severe tone, waggling his finger sternly. “You might get it.”
“You sound like my ma,” Ashton laughed, tipping his hat and whistling a jaunty tune as he walked away.
Saul shook his head and smiled again as the cop left. He’s a good kid, Saul thought. He settled back into his chair and turned his attention back to the television as they flashed highlights from some of Lady Justice’s most famous battles. Vision clouded by age and the beginnings of tears, he watched with all the fascination he had shown when the fights had first been broadcast, and he looked at her as she valiantly fought to defend all the things he and everyone else took for granted. Propping his elbows on his thighs, and his chin on his interlaced fingers, he thought back to the days when she flew over the country and made him so proud to be an American. The images danced in his eyes and he felt himself transported through time to the early sixties, reliving the moments as if he were once more seated in his armchair, Abraham and Daniel sprawled in the floor in front of him as they watched them on the massive black-and-white console that dominated the living room.
“Truly you were the best of us all,” he whispered as the pictures reflected off his eyes.
* * * * *
-February 13-
-Atlanta, Georgia, 0713 hours-
-Starbucks Café-
Starbucks was doing brisk business with the crowds of reporters and media affiliates that had jammed the city for the parade. Camera crews and photojournalists milled around in a state of readiness, carrying more hardware than a military platoon, though theirs was of a decidedly less immediately lethal nature. Self-employed stringers, fired up by an excess of caffeine, bragged of their genebooster-filming accomplishments in vain attempts to be recognized by the more successful employees of mass media conglomerates. Not one any of the reporters present took notice of the two men seated at a corner table of the patio, although an interview with either could have made a career. The two looked like normal civilians, and these reporters had absolutely zero interest in the mundane elements of society.
At his seat in that particular corner table, Emile DuChamp nursed his latte and waited patiently for his friend to speak, ignoring the childish urge to form snow from the morning humidity and freeze out the reporters. He had already arranged for a heavy northern breeze that effectively drowned out their conversation, and that would be enough for now.
Dressed in casual street clothes, Patriot - without any hint of his trademarked mask and costume - sat at the table across from Emile, one hand holding his head as the other lifted yet another cigarette to his lips in bold violation of the tiny plastic ‘No Smoking’ sign on the table. It was, after all, an outdoor café, and there was no reason to worry about the smoke with Emile’s wind carrying it away. He sighed, exhaling smoke through his nose in twin plumes as he did so. Time passed in silence at the table as he smoked. Pursing his lips as he butted the cigarette on the tiled floor beneath his heel, he spoke for the first time since ordering the triple espresso that even now sat cooling before him.
“I’m not stupid, Emile. I saw Her. It was a warning.”
“Of what?” countered the bearded booster, cradling his cup in one hand as he tipped a container of sugar, adding a tiny amount to the brew.
“I don’t know. I just know something is coming.”
“So you saw her. As I said, this is Her day. You will be making a speech in Her honor. She is on your mind as much as She is my own. It is no wonder—”
The remainder of his comments were cut off by a curt reply from Patriot.
“Don’t act like it’s nothing!” Patriot ordered, his voice carrying beyond the table despite the breeze. The reporters in the café turned their heads automatically to see what had caused the disturbance. Emile favored them with a raised middle finger and they went back to their own conversations.
“I’m - look, I’m sorry,” Patriot said, lowering his voice once more. “I didn’t mean to shout.”
“You did not shout,” Emile said with the practiced ease of a diplomat. He flapped a hand to show how easily he dismissed the idea. “All right. Let us say that, for the sake of the discussion, I am believing you. Let us say that you saw Her and that is was indeed a warning. What would it be a warning of? This is the one day when boosters all over the world stop their fighting and take a day off to remember the First. What else represents a threat?”
“Terrorists. Military action. Alien invaders. Biological warfare.” Patriot ticked items off on his fingers as he spoke. Emile grinned wryly and imitated his friend with his own hand.
“Yes, yes. Lawyers, politicians, telemarketers, religious seekers that come and knock on your door, I get it,” he said. “So there are other things out there? How much of a threat to you are they?”
“I never figured the threat was to me, Emile. Alicia was a protector of millions. She always fought for the people, not the flag. She was there for them, not me. So why think the threat is directed at me and not them?”
“So we say that it is. Even should we know what form this threat will take, which I remind you we most assuredly do not, how would we go about preparing to fight it? We have not been in the game for some time, you and I.”
“Considering what I have in mind for today’s speech, I put in a call to HeartBreak yesterday morning,” Patriot declared flatly, as though daring the French booster to respond. “Ordered up some additional assistance, as it were.”
“Oh, tell me you did not,” Emile begged, his face going pale. “That bitch owns you, my friend. She will claim from you what she has from so many others.”
“Not a chance. Besides, I told her that she owed us, not the other way around.”
From pale, Emile blanched all the way to ghostly. “You did not tell her that I was involved, did you?”
“I may have mentioned it, yeah. So what?”
At that moment, the café fell silent as every single reporter, camera operator, writer and stringer in the place gasped as one. Emile glanced toward the lurking shadow on the patio and put his palm to his forehead, looking at his friend with abject horror as he recognized the source of the shadow. He shook his head sadly and tried to give his best fake smile.
“If that is who I think it is, my friend, then you had better place your public relations team on danger money,” he whispered.
Chapter Sixteen
It was not every day that a dragon walked into Starbucks, not to mention one walking upright and standing nearly seven feet tall. This one was wearing military-issue tiger-stripe battledress utility pants and twin shoulder holsters from which the butts of enormous pistols jutted. Shirtless, his chest was a mass of overlapping armor plates that shifted with a subtle whispering sound as he moved. They were a sickly yellow in color, offsetting the deep Kelly green of the scales that covered the rest of him. A pair of leathery wings were tucked in close to his back, and a barbed tail danced ominously in the air behind him. Even the jaded reporters of the genebooster circuit
were taken aback by what they saw, and a hush fell over the café as he entered. Glittering yellow eyes panned back and forth, scanning the crowd from beneath armored ridges. What could be described as a smile split the massive reptilian jaws, exposing lengthy fangs. The effect of that expression was not lost on the café’s staff, who took the opportunity to scurry for cover.
One reporter, sensing that the moment was at hand to make his next big career move, approached the dragon tentatively, microphone extended before him as he struggled to mask his fear long enough to smile in a friendly manner.
“Ummm, good morning,” the reporter greeted. A tiny shiver carried through his hands and made the tip of the microphone bob up and down. “Hank Chambers, MSNBC. Could I have a word?”
Scales rustled with a sound like sandpaper as the booster slowly swiveled his head to face the reporter. His lip curled back in disgust and his wings flexed slightly outward, expanding a foot in either direction as they arced up and forward toward his head.
“I got a couple,” he growled in a dangerous voice. “I don’t think you wanna record ’em, though.”
Hank stood in place, stunned by the rebuff. He licked at lips suddenly gone dry, then tried again. He was determined to be the first to interview this new player.
“Well, sir, what I meant -”
“I know what you meant, ya maggot-sucking jackal bastard!” Drake snarled. He pointed to the exit with a shining talon. “All of you get your asses out of here while you can still walk! Ain’t there some victim’s families that need you to ask ’em stupid questions about how they feel?”
There was a rush of sound as dozens of feet hammered a path away from the reptilian booster. Once the café had been cleared of the media element, Drake turned his attention back to the pair of men who still sat in the corner. He recognized Emile, who was looking at him with a mixture of despair and amusement. The other man still faced away from him, holding himself stiffly upright in his chair.
Firedrake - Volume Two Page 3
