“Its not that important anyway, how well can you see the people?”
“I recognize Ranger Roy, but who’s the other man?” I asked.
“That’s Edward Castel, more colorfully known as Lord Death. Unlike Baron Mortis, he was an actual English lord. He crossed paths with the first Rookhound and Ranger Roy before he disappeared.” With a click, the clattering resumed and the film continued.
“Is it on?” a somewhat muffled voice with a posh accent asked.
“Yes, Lord Castel,” a whiny, nasal voice not belonging to anyone in the image said.
“I always wanted to be in movies,” Roy said, cheesy smile on his face.
“We are documenting the results of the experiment,” Lord Death said. “Ivar, stand by to activate main power.” He walked off the screen to the left. Roy’s smile vanished and was replaced with a more sober, concerned expression. There was a clank and an ominous crackle that caused Roy to look up.
“Aren’t I a little close to the middle of this?”
“I’m not going to move you some place where you can interfere with the instrumentation,” Castel said.
“I don’t think this is particularly safe.”
There was a modest click that for a moment I thought came from the projector, but Roy turned to look to the left.
“Though Misters Smith and Wessen do make a compelling counter-argument,” Roy said. The shadows behind him began to dance and spin as the crackle grew louder and was joined by a low groan. Roy glanced back up at the ceiling. The image washed out in a crack of light that speared down the middle of the screen. Roy visibly tried to scramble away from the light as it pulsed a few times. The chair he was in barely slid a few inches despite his efforts.
“Power flow is ten percent higher than upper bound of previous estimates,” the whiny voice said. “If the draw increases, we will be near the melt point of our main feeds.”
“Keep an eye on it,” Castel said. “I am adjusting calibration, field strength is lower than anticipated.”
“What does this thing even do?” Roy shouted, but he was ignored.
“New optimal alignment point,” Lord Death rattled off some numbers whose significance was lost to me. “This strongly suggests a variable optimum based upon parameters we have not yet been able to detect.” The column of light stabilized, the pulsating speeding up to a steady blur.
“We are losing capacitance in the secondary emitters,” the whiny voice said. “If we don’t trigger soon, we’ll have to abort and restart.”
“Triggering in three, two, one.” A thunderclap drowned out Roy’s cry of alarm as the screen washed white. When the image returned, the column of light was gone, replaced by a winged man kneeling upon the spot it had been. I wasn’t sure what color the feathers where, but part of me suspected they were red. He rose slowly, still keeping himself wrapped in his plumage.
“Odd,” Castel said.
There was a distant clang and Rookhound fell from the top of the screen, his raincoat flaring out behind him. One hand held his fedora in place, and the other clutched a familiar bronze belt cast over his shoulder. it was the original Rookhound, Felix Walker, when he was barely as old as I am now, and he looked it. He crashed down on the shoulders of the winged figure, and the two sprawled on the floor. Felix rolled to his feet almost immediately and cut Roy free.
“You took your time,” Roy said, his tone jovial.
“Someone clogged the vents with high voltage cables,” Felix said, handing over Roy’s belt. The crack of gunfire made them duck. I blinked in surprise as Felix drew a forty-five automatic from under his coat. He returned fire off to the right as he ran from the field of view of the camera.
“Stop shooting at the equipment,” Castel yelled. His minions ceased their fire at once.
If I hadn’t known how the belt was operated, I would have missed the subtle motion of Roy turning the dial on the buckle. He clobbered the winged figure as it tried to rise, the force of the impact augmented by the increased effect of gravity on the belt from its new setting. Just as surreptitiously, he cranked it back down before putting it on and running from view. A man in a white lab coat hurried across the field of view from the right to the left.
“Hold on,” I called, the face looking familiar. Grandpa Walker stopped the film, but the man was most of the way out of the frame. “Can you back that up?”
“Uh, yes, I think so.” He clicked it back frame by frame until the man’s distinguished features were visible again.
“That’s Ivar Kazuk,” I said.
“He did serve as lab assistant for Lord Death until the man disappeared. But his is not the most interesting face in this film.”
“All right,” I said. Grandpa Walker restarted the projector, and Doctor Omicron disappeared from view again. After more confused sounds off-screen, a woman in a trousered uniform strode to the side of the winged figure and began helping him to stand. Grandpa Walker stopped the film and began clicking forward frame by frame until her features were clear.
It was Helen Dietrich.
Part 20
“But this film is eighty years old,” I said. The analytical piece of my mind began rattling off various ways it could be real. On the previously darkened screen, Shiva summoned up Dietrich’s picture from her personnel record and a close-up of the video feed from Grandpa Walker. The computer ran through a facial comparison and came up with a ninety-six percent confidence in a match.
“A clone? Robot? Magical disguise? Really long-lived? Time travel?” Icerazor asked.
“A magical disguise as an unknown henchwoman seems pointless,” Saito said. “And time travel would make most of the plan she’s executed equally so.”
“And basic screening at Rockstead would have detected a robot,” Shiva added.
Grandpa Walker shut off the projector and brought the lights back up in his house. “Let’s assume for the moment that this is the same person and not a clone.”
“That film can was labeled ‘Thedron’,” I said.
“Yes,” Grandpa Walker said, sitting down in front of his camera again. “The winged man in it went on to found the Cult of Thedron before he was shot.”
“Where did he come from?” I asked.
“There are only two people who might be able to answer that,” Saito said. “Luckily we still know where one of them is.”
“Doctor Omicron,” I said. “I wonder what he’s going to ask for this time.”
“Let me worry about that,” Saito said.
“Something has been bugging me,” Icerazor said. “The firefight at the end of that video.”
“What about it?”
“No offense, but Rookhound is not known for being a sharpshooter.”
“The Community Code was only adopted in the nineteen fifties,” Saito said. “During Congressional hearings into the Fund’s activities, and when we came very close to being outlawed. Instead, we ended up with the BHA. Prior to then, Fund Members were permitted to use as much lethal force as any member of the population. But we also had no formal recognition or licensure.”
“I see,” Icerazor said.
“I’m going to look through the notes associated with this film reel to see if it says where all this took place,” Grandpa Walker said. “I know it’s a long shot, but it might not hurt to see if there’s anything still there.”
“I know I won’t be able to stop you from looking through the notes,” Saito said, “but if you do find something, send someone who is not on medical leave to check it out.”
“I’m not stupid, old man,” Grandpa Walker grumbled. Though I wasn’t sure which of the two was older, Saito refused to be riled by the remark.
“So what are we doing for the time being?” Icerazor asked.
“Remain on standby. You two are the
first people I’m going to call when I know where this happened.”
“Understood.”
“Actually,” Saito said, eliciting a grumble from Grandpa Walker. “Follow-up with Blue Streak on the Amaranth question and ask around with regards to ways of neutralizing the Red Death. We still have to prepare to take her down when we find her.”
“On it,” I said.
“Unless there was anything else?” Saito said. Rather than comment in the negative, Grandpa Walker shut off his computer.
“We’re good,” Icerazor said. Saito nodded and shut down the link.
I took out my phone and called Nora. “You’re on speaker, Icerazor’s here.”
“Hi guys,” Nora said, artificially cheerful. “It feels like I talk to you more now that I’ve left.
“We were actually calling about the Amaranth sisters,” Icerazor said.
“Yeah, I heard that silly theory. Amy was with me when Red was attacking Rockstead, and neither of them has a magical background. So I’m not sure where the idea came from.”
“An information hoarder,” I said.
Nora made a dismissive noise.
“You’re sure Candis can’t be the Red Death?” Icerazor asked.
“I’ll double check, but I don’t think the girl’s a caster.”
“Thanks, you’re my favorite sister,” I said.
“Like that means a lot,” Nora said as I hung up.
Dreadmere Plaza was one of the defining features of the New Port Arthur skyline. Five obelisks of black glass over steel, four smaller towers around the larger middle structure, all rising from a single large base. Dozens of companies had offices within those towers, in contrast to the single organization that took up all of the mirrored structures of Sterling Towers. I was hesitant to approach the building without anything to offer Norman, but he was still the best option. Composing myself, I walked into the central lobby of the Plaza. A heavyset black man in a near-blue uniform looked up from the security desk.
“Since when do tights use the front door?” he asked.
“I’m here to have a cordial conversation, so there’s no reason to try to break in,” I said.
“Who are you looking for?”
“Norman Wilson.”
The guard typed the name into his terminal. “No one by that name in the registry.”
“I was told he works nights here.”
“No company?”
“It was not mentioned. I suspect it may be janitorial.”
The guard picked up his walkie-talkie. “Ernie, you got a Norman Wilson working for you?”
“He should be mopping the fourteenth floor of tower three right now,” a voice, presumably Ernie, replied.
“Thanks.” The guard set the radio down and dropped a book on the counter. “Please sign in.” I signed the book as ‘Shadowdemon’. He swiped a visitor pass in the system and handed it to me. “Return it on your way out.” I found the turnstile marked ‘tower three’ and headed in that direction. I swiped through and took the elevator up. There were several suites of offices off the fourteenth floor elevator lobby. I found only two people on the dimly lit floor. One was an olive-skinned woman with striped hair. The other was a wiry, gray-haired man.
“You’re not hidin’ too well,” the woman said.
“I’m not trying to hide,” I said.
“He’s here for me,” the man said.
“You want me to throw him out, Normie?” she asked.
“No,” he said dunking his mop in the rolling bucket and sloshing the soapy water over the floor tiles. “But I should probably hear what he has to say in private.”
“All right, I’ll start the trash on fifteen.” She walked off as Norman continued spreading the water across the floor.
“I’m still on parole, I can’t afford to lose this job,” he said, “So I have to keep working while we talk.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
“What do you need?”
“You used to be Hymnomancer.”
“I used to be a lot of things.”
“I’m looking for a way to neutralize a sound-based attack, and your name kept coming up.”
“That’s still very vague,” Norman said, wringing out the mop and running it over the puddles he’d made. I got the impression he wasn’t very good at mopping.
“It’s technically a magical attack, but it incapacitates those who hear it. I’d like to neutralize the sound without removing the ability to hear everything else that’s going on.”
“I see.” His tone was morose, almost melancholic.
“How hard would that be to do?”
“From a technical standpoint, that depends on the approach.” Norman still sounded more depressive than when we’d started. I wondered if I should inquire about that, but he kept talking. “You’ve already ruled out the simplest option of blanket denial.” He sloshed the mop over the same span of floor, distracted from the task at hand. Norman continued to mutter to himself for a few seconds before his head sank. When he remained silent, I leaned forward.
“Something wrong?”
“You sound a lot like your father,” Norman said.
I staggered back in shock.
“He was more strident and so very angry at your age,” Wilson continued, his voice barely a whisper. “When I heard... I’d thought... I’m so very sorry.” Tears were starting to trickle down his cheeks. Norman shook his head.
“What do you mean?” I asked, still wrong-footed.
“I thought he’d betrayed me.” He shook his head. “I lashed out... I told Michelangelo who he was. I didn’t think... I...”
I took another step back as if he’d punched me.
“I’m so sorry,” Norman said, unable to look up.
Balling my hands into fists, I stormed out. Hammering the elevator button, I gritted my teeth to avoid saying anything. Rage bubbled up inside me alongside memories that tore at my innards. The elevator dinged, and I stomped on to the car. I simmered as the elevator sank. I was less than polite in returning the visitor’s pass on my way out, tossing it on the desk as I stormed past.
I drove angrily out of downtown, uncertain of where I wanted to end up. I didn’t want to go back to Gruefield. I didn’t want to return to the very empty house. Everyone was out of town, and I ended up at the end of Twenty-First Street, staring at the river. The hideout was nothing but a low-profile concrete box on the shore. It had no lights on, but the garage door still rolled open when I keyed it. I parked and sat on the empty floor where my desk used to be. Leaning against the bare wall, I tried to compose myself. What was the point of raging at Norman Wilson? He was a piteous, broken old man. Sitting in the dark, I closed my eyes.
Had I been able to fall asleep, I probably would have. Instead, I slowly realized I’d been sitting on hard concrete for hours and hadn’t had an active thought or emotion for some time. Somewhat numbly, I got back in the car and drove to Gruefield.
Trying to help Xiv develop a fighting style has long been a unique challenge. At first, he had too much of a tendency to imitate me, but the basic forearm block was a really bad idea for him. His technique was constantly evolving, but he was still very much a beginner. So we drilled basic moves and gave him a chance to spar whenever he felt up to it. Usually it was when he was starting to get overconfident. Xiv gave a frustrated noise as he struck the mat again, having been knocked over by a palm strike to the collarbone.
“Now, if I’d been really trying to hurt you, I’d have aimed slightly higher and struck for your windpipe,” I said, helping the dragon boy to his feet. Though his posture normally hid it, Xiv had a really long neck comparatively. Maybe two or three times that of a normal human. He was able to turn his face to look comfortably behind him.
“Yo
u keep saying ‘if I really wanted to hurt you’,” Xiv said.
“We’ve had this conversation before,” I said.
“And you’ll have it again some time,” Nick said from the doorway. The gym, with its locker rooms, exercise equipment, and padded sparring area was just off the side of the mess hall. It ranked up there as one of the more commonly used areas in the base.
“So what’s up?” I asked.
“We just got a copy of Rockstead’s latest hits, featuring story time with Doctor Omicron,” he said. “No need to kit up, we can watch it in the rec room.” Before I could ask Xiv if he wanted to call it a day, he was already bounding out of the gym. I shrugged and followed the two. Nick was plugging a memory stick into the TV as I got in there. We sat down as the sole video file began to play. The gray room it was in was rather uninteresting, and Doctor Omicron had no visible expression. Warden Ellison paced in the foreground.
“I take it you didn’t drag me out of my cell to pace at me,” Omicron said. I had a hard time reconciling the deep, resonant voice with the whiny, nasal one from the film. Rationally, I knew his current voice came from an artificial voicebox and had no correlation to what he’d sounded like before his run-in with the Third Reich. Ellison tossed a sheet of paper on the table.
“Is that you in that picture?”
Omicron looked at it and sat back. “A long time ago, yes.” The synthetic skin covering his skull was incapable of registering anything near the same degree of expression as a natural face. Behind the swirl of translucent gasses, it might as well have been the blank hood he used to wear. “I’m not sure how this is relevant today, however.”
“Do you recognize the person in this photograph?” Ellison laid another sheet of paper on the table.
“Judging by the attire, not an Ironcap, but a general henchgirl for Lord Castel. He usually had a few to run odd jobs. Noncombatants.”
Gruefield 18 (Tarnished Sterling Omnibus) Page 128
