"Who's driving this contraption?" he shouted. He saw Mara seated at the controls, and she smiled at him. The red left his cheeks and he paled considerably.
"I should have guessed," he moaned. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
Mara began to say something, but the priest waved her off.
"No, don't answer that," he sighed. "There are some
things I'm better off not knowing."
21
Monroe let the water wash over him, rinsing away the day's sweat and grime. It would return, of course. I he heat would see to that. But for the moment, the cool water felt good against his skin. He knew that Major I toot was waiting for him, but he allowed himself a few seconds more under the shower spray.
As he washed, he thought back to his last days in Philadelphia, to a scene that was forever etched in his memory. It was just a few days after New York had gone silent. Refugees were pouring in, and the hospitals had railed in every available doctor to work the emergency rooms — even the high-priced specialists like himself. I le was in the ER in fact when the cop and priest wheeled in the young woman.
She had been hit by a car and was in very bad shape. He remembered fighting to save her life, remembered the pang of defeat and sadness as that life slipped away. The monitors flatlined. He lost her. Then the priest was shouting at the woman, telling her to live. He tried to calm the man, tried to help him cope with his grief.
And then the monitor resumed its normal pattern of beeps and the woman sat up. Most of the damage he noted was gone, and what few cuts remained were healing rapidly. To this day, Monroe had no explanation for what happened. He supposed it could have been a miracle. Perhaps the priest's prayers had been answered.
But there were some strange events related to the incident. The young woman, whose driver's license identified her as brown-eyed Wendy Miller, claimed her name was Tolwyn of House Tancred. And her eyes were a sparkling emerald green.
The hospital officials released her before he could finish all his tests, claiming that she was healthy and they needed the bed space for those who weren't. She left then, off to chase the dream she had spoken of to everyone who would listen. The priest went with her, of course, and the cop. But Monroe could not get her out of his mind, and he left Philadelphia shortly after they did.
He turned the faucets and cut the flow of water to the shower. Once he stepped out of the stall, he would again be dealing with life and death. He wondered what he would discover this time.
22
Major Julie Boot was waiting when Monroe emerged from the locker room. While it was evident he had cleaned himself up, she could see the heat already beginning to work on him anew.
"Look at this," he complained. "I'm sweating again."
"Come on, doctor," she said, grabbing his arm and leading him down the corridor. "It's time to meet your first patient."
She led him to a private room, and she noted his surprise when he saw that there was only one patient within. He walked over and stood at the foot of the bed, not asking any questions, not examining the chart. He only stood there, staring at the staves that jutted from the patient's chest, then glancing at the patient's face. After a time, the doctor walked over to the chair that rested in the corner and collapsed heavily into it. His head dropped into his hands and Julie could hear him sigh.
"Doctor, is something wrong? Aren't you even going to look at his chart?" she asked.
The doctor looked up, and his eyes had a hollow cast
to them. "I can't take this case, Major."
"Excuse me?"
"1 think my words were clear," he said. "I cannot work on this patient."
"And why not, doctor?"
Monroe stood and walked back over to the bed. He had grown weary since entering this room, and his shoulders sagged noticeably. She felt pain coming from him, an unspoken sorrow that she didn't understand. Initially, he spoke.
"He's my brother."
23
Bryce marveled! True, he had been nervous at first, hut his long love affair with flying finally overcame his 1repidation at seeing young Mara at the throttle. (And it didn't hurt that she had gotten the hang of it — at least time what — and the plane was no longer responding like a bucking bronco.)
Flying was one of those things, he believed, that a person just can't get enough of. Like a great-tasting meal: even if you numbed your taste buds by too much indulgence, all you had to do was stop for a while and let your nerves recharge. Then you could go right back and eat some more, and enjoy it just as much as that wonderful first bite. How some people could be frightened by being up in the air he didn't understand. That kind of thinking was alien to his nature, to his inborn curiosity.
It was a thrill being in the cockpit. For Bryce, it was a boyhood thing, a dream of sorts — all those switches, dials, lights and power bars waiting to be flicked, read, noticed and adjusted. It was so ... exciting! And then there was Mara.
No, thought Bryce, excuse me, Dr. Hachi Mara-Two. The longer he knew her, the more the name really seemed to fit the sixteen-year-old girl who sat so determinedly in the copilot's seat, reaching up and down, flicking switches and tapping dials like a seasoned pro. Bryce grinned and left the cabin, marveling at the contradiction in teen's clothing.
Even with the loss of Alder and Decker, and with having to leave Coyote, Rat and Tal Tu back in California, Bryce figured they were in better shape then they had been when they departed Philadelphia. They now had a destination. They had transportation. They had pilots. And with any luck they had contacts waiting for them in Australia. It was amazing what kind of clout Congressman Decker had provided them with. Bryce sobered when he thought of Decker and his plight. Offering up a brief prayer, he followed it with a quick thought to Decker. "Hold on," he thought hard, trying to send the message by willpower alone. "We're on our way to help you."
In the cabin, Bryce noted that Tolwyn had finally pried herself away from the window and had fallen asleep in her seat. Once she got over her initial fear of "the magic flying wagon," she became enraptured of the view outside. Now, however, after countless hours in the air, she let rest take her mind and body. Like a child, she looked beautiful in sleep. The usual hardness left her features for a little while. Even the mottled bruises left by the Carredon could not hide her innate loveliness, and the patch on her forehead made her look dashing. She was radiant in repose.
Kurst, on the other hand, was in sleep as he was awake, his body coiled and ready to spring at the slightest sound. There was something about the man
I hat disturbed Bryce, and only a little of it had to do with the fact that Kurst was a werewolf. But the priest couldn't make a list or put his finger on exactly which of Kurst's Traits bothered him. Perhaps it was his lack of comradery or his secrecy, or the way he seemed to watch everyone and everything.
Suddenly his good mood was gone, and Bryce sat down heavily in one of the vacant seats. He missed the ot hers—Alder, Coyote, Rat, Tal Tu. They had been with him from the beginning, and now it seemed unfair and wrong that they were not with him now. Instead, it was |iist Father Christopher Bryce as the representative of l arth, traveling along with three people from other — cosms was the word Mara used. With dark thoughts troubling his mind, Bryce drifted off to sleep.
24
President Jonathan Wells sat in his office in Houston, I exas, trying to get comfortable in his new surroundings. It still bothered him that he had to order the evacuation of Washington, D.C. They ran, and there was only one excuse for it. Wells tried not to dwell on the fact that the I i zards had beaten them, at least temporarily. He sighed. I hey were in the worst period of American history, with actual invaders on American soil, and it fell to Jonathan Wells to keep the country alive. He wished he was someone else right now.
But he wasn't, and as president he had a job to do. He shuffled through the piles of paper on his desk, dismissing each in turn as he scanned for those items that needed his immediate attention. A dispatch fro
m Twentynine Palms caused him to pause. It was from Colonel Arthur McCall, informing the president that there had been no change in Congressman Decker's condition. In addition, the group that accompanied Decker had departed for Australia aboard a military transport, as per the president's request.
"What happened to you, Ace?" Wells thought. "Did you find the Heart of Coyote? Are those companions you told me about even now rushing to use it to save the world?"
It sounded so far-fetched to believe that a few people and a blue and red stone could make any difference, but something deep inside Wells told him they could. He remembered his recurring dream, the one that forced him to send Decker on his fatal quest. Wells would have gone himself—if he had been younger, if he didn't have the responsibilities of the country weighing him down.
He looked at the report again, going over the details of Decker's condition. Wells decided that he had to know what was going on. He had to see Ace for himself. Perhaps then some of this would start to make sense. He placed the dispatch carefully into his "In" basket/then continued shuffling.
The next document that drew his attention was an Executive Order awaiting his signature. Wells read the words and felt rage building within him. The order, once signed, would grant the Delphi Council the ability to raise its own army. Yes, the document called them agents, but the intent between the lines spoke of the need for power that was answerable directly to the new agency.
Perhaps he had been wrong to establish the Delphi Council. Already the so-called think tank had recruited some of the most formidable scientists, politicians, and military personnel in the country. It was churning out policies and plans to be implemented in case of any contingency. And while the council was supposed to report directly to the president, much of the time it was handled directly by Vice President Dennis Quartermain. What policies had been passed by Wells seemed extreme, hut not out of the question considering the state of the nation. But the council would have to be monitored more closely.
He placed the document into the basket as well. He would have to talk about that piece of paper with Ellen C onners, one time senator who now headed the Delphi Council. He didn't relish that talk. Wells reached for ■mother stack of papers to sort when a knock sounded at the door. Startled, Wells almost dropped the papers.
"Come in," he called as he carefully set the documents down.
The door swung open and Dennis Quartermain entered the room. "John," the Vice President asked, "have you signed that document I left with you this morning?"
"Not yet, Dennis," Wells replied. "Is there anything else? I am rather busy."
Quartermain ignored the brusque tone in Wells' voice. "There is someone outside to see you, but..."
"Since when did you take on the duties of my secretary?" Wells asked as he stood up. "Who's out there?"
Before Quartermain could answer, a figure filled the doorway. He was rough looking, tough. Not the sort commonly seen associating with someone in Wells' position. He wore a leather jacket, dark glasses, and a three-day-old beard.
"You sent for me?" the man spoke, his voice strong and solid.
"Come in, Quin," Wells called, trying to sound friendly. "I'm glad you could make it. It's been a long
time."
"Not long enough," the man named Quin said as he pushed past the Vice President.
"Are you going to introduce us?" Quartermain asked at last.
"No, Dennis, I'm not," Wells replied. "In fact, you never saw this gentleman. Now leave, I have work to do."
Rage flared in Quartermain's eyes, but he held himself in check. He glared at Wells for a moment, then turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
"That man doesn't like you, John," Quin said.
"The feeling is mutual," Wells said. "But he does his job and he does it well. Enough of him. How are you, Quin?"
Quin Sebastian, soldier of fortune, slid onto the fine leather couch across from Wells' desk. He propped his hands behind his head and leaned back comfortably.
"I'm here, and I still don't know why. You know, I don't work for you or for the government anymore." j
"Let me make a call, and then we can get down to business," Wells said as he lifted the telephone receiver. "Get me General Powell."
25
"Your brother?" Julie Boot shouted. "What do you mean he's your brother?" But as she asked the question, she knew that it was true. Monroe had the same features, the same eyes. He was younger than the congressman, not as tall. But there was definitely a resemblance.
"My name used to be James Monroe Decker. I had it legally changed," Monroe said, not looking at Julie as he spoke. "A good joke my parents had, naming us after presidents. I wonder what they would have named a
l lighter had they had one. Betsy Ross Decker?"
"Why ...?" But he didn't let Julie finish.
"Why didn't I keep the name? I had a falling out with my family at an early age. Ace was the shining star, the apple of my parents' eyes. He excelled at everything he did. All I ever heard was why couldn't I be more like Ace, and look at what Ace accomplished today."
There was bitterness in Monroe's voice, and sorrow. But Julie couldn't decide which was the prevailing emotion.
"I didn't come home from college when my parents died, and I think that was the straw that finally made Ace accept my absence. I didn't go to see him play pro ball. I didn't attend his wedding. I never even acknowledged that he was my brother." Monroe laughed then, but there was no humor in the sound. "My brother the congressman!"
He got up and walked over to the bed. Decker was lying still. Only the constant beep of the monitors and the slight rise and fall of his chest showed that he still lived. "I was a bastard," Monroe continued. "God, I hated Ace. He was so ... perfect. But for all of my snubs, he showed up at my graduation from medical school. We didn't talk. But I saw him standing at the back of the auditorium, watching me. His wife died a few weeks ago, just before the storms began. I didn't go to the funeral. I never even met her."
Julie came and stood beside Monroe, placing her hand gently on his arm. "You've got to help him, Dr. Monroe. You're the best chance he has right now. I've read your file. You're a brilliant surgeon."
Monroe looked at her, catching her with his steady gaze. "I'm the best. Okay, let's examine the patient."
Julie smiled. "I knew you'd come around."
"Just remember," he said, seriousness creeping back into his voice, "my name is Monroe, not Decker."
26
Angus Cage tracked his quarry through the twisting tunnels beneath the temple, confident that he would catch him before long. Cage was a bounty hunter and a hero of sorts on Terra, the cosm that had produced the villainous Dr. Mobius. It was five years ago that Cage had battled Mobius in this very temple. Five years ago that Mobius fell into a seemingly bottomless pit, ending his threat to Terra forever. But there were other villains, like the one Cage tracked now.
Purple Haze was a second-rate crook with a flashy gizmo that provided him with a fog screen. It wasn't the most powerful weapon, but it helped the Haze slip out of his grasp on more occasions than he cared to remember. This hunt, he promised, would be the last.
Cage checked his own weapon, making sure his tommy-gun's ammo drum was snapped in. He adjusted his hat so it sat low over his eyes. Then he stopped to listen. There was talking coming from up ahead. From the sounds, Purple Haze wasn't alone. Great, thought Cage. Why do these little adventures always wind up getting complicated?
He proceeded cautiously, expecting a trap around every bend. His nerves tensed when each turn produced nothing more threatening then clinging cobwebs. The voices were louder now, as though the speakers didn't care who heard them. Up ahead was a lighted opening. That's where the voices were coming from. Well, Angus, he thought, you always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. This could be your big chance.
Steeling himself with a couple of deep breaths, Angus
The Dark Realm
'Cage leaped through
the portal and into a large chamber. The chamber, he noted, was full of costumed characters
including many that Cage had met and dealt with over the years. He lowered his tommy-gun, shifted his hat back, and cleared his throat.
The costumed men and women stopped talking and turned to regard Cage. He smiled.
"That's better," Cage said. "Now, does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on in here?"
An elderly gentleman stepped forward. Standing beside him wag a man in a long, dark coat who wore a dark blue mask and carried a diamond-tipped cane. Cage knew both of them — Dr. Alexus Frest and the guardian.
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