Crawford stared back at him thoughtfully for a long moment, then seemed to make some silent decision and glanced down, slipping a second sheet from the folder, this time actually half rising and placing it on the desk before sinking back into his seat.
The Senator stared at him for a long moment before reaching to retrieve the new document and glancing at it.
It was a page from some sort of report, the end of a paragraph at the top followed by a header that was highlighted above a single paragraph. At the bottom of the page, yet another header began some new section.
“What’s this?” he asked, now feeling the stirrings of mild curiosity.
“Please just read it, Senator.”
With a sour twist of his lips the Senator scanned over the paragraph, his sense of confusion growing. By the time he finished and looked up, there was silent incomprehension in his face.
“That,” Crawford began, now settling back into his chair, “Came in yesterday. It’s a routine feed from the incident reports of the Los Angeles Police Department.”
The Senator stared at him.
“Okay, so?”
Crawford sighed tolerantly.
“We monitor all incident traffic from every law enforcement organization in the country and wash it through the recognition software. That one popped out yesterday.”
“So?” the Senator snapped.
“For a long while now we’ve been monitoring these incident reports looking for patterns. As you know, the reason for certain unfortunate past events was nothing more than a lack of centralization of information in its raw form, so that it could be collated and properly analyzed. If we’d been doing that, those past incidents could have been prevented. But the FBI didn’t talk to the CIA, who didn’t talk to the NSA, and so on.”
“I know the process,” the Senator cut in. “Please get to the point.”
“In order to get the software to pull specific data we have to give it perimeters, basically scenarios. That report is the latest in a number of incidents that have been pulled under the criteria of one particular scenario.”
“And what was the scenario?”
Now it was Crawford’s turn to hesitate before responding.
“The Unexplained.”
The Senator stared at him, waiting.
Crawford sighed once more.
“Demonstrations of events that are contrary to the current understanding of the sciences.”
“So,” the Senator intoned slowly, “You’re looking for Bigfoot?”
“No, Senator. We settled the Bigfoot issue a while ago. What we’re looking for are indications of a threat using highly advanced science. Science that is currently beyond the understanding of the wider scientific world.”
The Senator slowly leaned back in his chair, considering this new thought.
“Go on,” he said.
“Sir Isaac Newton single-handedly leapt science ahead by an immeasurable amount. No other living mind of his time could touch the concepts he developed. Fortunately he lived in an age when he didn’t have at his disposal the mechanisms to act on his concepts. Imagine what would have happened if he’d been able to actually try to manipulate gravity on a grand scale.
“These days those mechanisms exist, or can be built. And a single brilliant mind, with access to those mechanisms, conducting experiments with things like Black Holes or anti-matter… Think of what could happen if it went wrong. Or worse… right.”
The Senator sat very still, trying to absorb the idea and not liking what it tasted of.
He had grown up, like any normal American kid, consuming a diet of horror and science fiction movies. And the lone, mad scientist plotting and even threatening to take over the world had always been a staple of almost every campy adventure. And now, he realized, it could actually happen. As long as he had access to resources and money, a single man really could do virtually anything he wanted.
“So,” he said at last, quietly, “The new facilities appropriation?”
“Yes sir. It relates.”
The Senator took only a moment to wonder what was going to be bought with all that money, but quickly gave it up, realizing he might never know.
“So, what about this one incident?”
Crawford half-rose to lean and pick up the page from the desk, casting his eyes over it as he settled back.
“Every time a police report is entered into a networked system, we receive a copy. That’s every single report, including those that just get filed and no action is ever taken. Even the so-called junk reports, statements that are so crazy they can’t be true but have to be noted for the files. The computers have isolated what they thought was a pattern in the Los Angeles area. Certain reports that seem to relate to one another. That one came in yesterday and the computers decided it was significant when compared to the others.”
“What is it supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Crawford said simply, “That we think there is someone in the Los Angeles area who is capable of something that might be a threat.”
“So what’s that report again?” the Senator said, flicking a finger to the paper in Crawford’s hand.
Crawford cast his eyes to the page.
“A delivery driver was making a stop at a convenience store in North Hollywood, and while he was inside the store someone picked up his truck and moved it. This unknown person then crushed the rear ramp with his foot, got in a car and drove off.”
“Did the driver get a license number?”
Crawford shook his head.
“Didn’t leave the store until the police got there.”
“And what else has happened that your computer thinks relates to this?”
“Nothing quite so overt. But indications around certain areas in Los Angeles of property damage and other things. A woman goes to her car and finds a handprint pressed deep into the hood, as if someone had stumbled against it.
“A man finds a malfunctioning soda machine with the whole front ripped off of it and deliberately set carefully aside.”
“But this time,” the Senator interjected thoughtfully, “Somebody saw him doing it.”
“Exactly,” Crawford agreed.
My God, Julian thought, is such a thing really, actually possible now? Did some actual Dr. Frankenstein get his hands on enough lightening rods and bio-nutrient solutions and micro-surgical equipment to actually do it? Build an actual monster?
He quickly sat up, his mind focusing.
“What are you planning to do in the immediate future? You’ll get your funding, but what are you doing right now?”
Crawford gave a hint of a satisfied smile, which he quickly shook off, turning business-like.
“I’ve already dispatched a team to LA. They’ll be checking out all those prior reports, see what other data we can find. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll be able to identify this… whoever it is. Find out how it happened and what it means.”
“And then?”
Crawford was momentarily silent.
“We’ll deal with that when we find it, Senator.”
Dan eased the cruiser in behind the car that had finally stopped on the shoulder of the interstate, killing the siren but letting the light bar ripple its warning to the rest of the traffic that passed them, leaving loud, annoyed-sounding hisses in their wake.
He slowly opened the door, his eyes staying fixed on the other vehicle. He closed the door and stepped toward it. The guy had pulled well off the side, practically off the shoulder, leaving Dan enough room to safely stand next to the driver’s door.
As he approached, moving cautiously, he caught sight of the form in the driver’s seat. He could see the once-white dress shirt had deep streaks of black on it and places where it had been burned away, leaving blackened holes in the fabric. Hell, it was probably still smoldering, Dan thought.
He came around the side of the car, stepped just to the edge of the paint that represented the fictional separation of traffic lane from stopping place, and l
ooked at the man seated behind the wheel, his hands gripping it, eyes fixed straight ahead, expression tense.
He was probably in his mid-30’s, with a soft, bland face, short dark hair. He was remarkably ordinary, the kind of guy you wouldn’t look at twice if you passed him in the street.
“Sir?” Dan said evenly. “Are you okay?”
The man didn’t react other than to heave a sigh, his own gaze fixed ahead through the windshield, his expression tight.
“Sir?”
Again he received no reaction. Slowly he stepped closer to the car.
“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”
He stopped just out of reach and bent down, planting his palms against his thighs, and looked across at the man.
“That was a Hell of a thing you did back there,” he said quietly. “You’re a hero. You saved those kids.”
“I just...” the guy said, his tone tight and quavering, “Want to be left alone. That’s all. Just leave me alone.”
Dan hesitated.
“Sir, I can’t do that. I have to at least fill out a report. And I could sure use your help with that.”
The guy slowly lowered his head, his eyes closing, and Dan could see that he was struggling to hold tight to something.
“Sir, I promise you, you are not in any trouble. I promise you that. You did a wonderful thing back there. And I personally wanted to thank you.”
He kept his tone even, soothing, sincere.
“I don’t know how you did it, but it was really… really good. A good thing. You should be proud.”
And then he noticed the tiny shuddering in the rigid body. The guy was crying.
They remained, unmoving, for a considerable time before Dan spoke again.
“Sir… you want to go get some coffee?”
Fifteen minutes later they were seated in the rear booth at the Denny’s that Dan often visited for bathroom breaks when working this neighborhood, a cup of steaming coffee in front of each of them.
The guy had drawn some curious looks as he’d entered, preceding Dan between the counter and row of booths to the far end and settling in, but then a guy with a scorched shirt and torn trousers caked with dirt and stains, who smelled a little like a dead barbeque, followed by a cop, was sure to draw some interest.
Dan simply sat, staring at the guy, unable to completely process what he had witnessed. It was a miracle in a way. Or a Hell of a violation of the laws of physics and God knew what else. And he had seen it.
“I’m Dan,” he said quietly. “Dan Sinski. What’s your name?”
The guy, whose gaze had been directed intently into the air, inhaled and seemed to slump a fraction.
“Roger Malloy.”
Dan nodded.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Roger. A real honor. I mean that.”
He reached for his coffee, lifting it carefully to sip at it.
A moment later Roger reached for his own. His eyes were no longer a mix of rage and intensity. Now they were just tired. Tired and sad.
They sat in silence for a while, both of them, in their own way, letting the events of the last half hour settle into a place where they could be considered, challenged, interrogated and, finally, accepted.
“That really was a Hell of a thing you did back there. But I’m willing to bet you know that.”
For the first time Roger gave a tiny snort of bitter amusement.
“And I get the feeling,” Dan went on gently, “You don’t feel as good about it as you should. That worries me.”
“Why?” Roger croaked, sourly.
“Because it makes you look like you’re somehow… ashamed of it. What you did. What, I assume, you can do. And you shouldn’t be. You’re pretty amazing.”
“I’m just a guy,” Roger muttered, leaning gently back against the booth, his eyes never meeting Dan’s.
“Yes, you are. But you have something. I haven’t a clue what it is. And I couldn’t begin to know what it’s like to have it. But you’ve got it.”
He paused.
“Have you had it all your life?”
After a hesitation, Roger nodded.
Dan acknowledged it with a nod of his own.
“Wow,” he said quietly. “I can’t imagine what that must be like. It must be Hell.”
For the first time Roger glanced up, looking Dan in the face, his eyes searching them suspiciously.
Dan raised his eyebrows slightly and gave a light shrug.
“Well, I mean, it must be tough. You can’t let anybody know, or they’d think you were some kind of freak. And if it’s something you can’t turn on and off, then Jesus… that must be tiring.”
He paused a moment to take another sip of the coffee.
“Can you turn it on and off? Or is it… all the time?”
Roger seemed to consider this a moment before replying with a sigh.
“All the time.”
“Like even now?” Dan urged gently.
Roger looked at him, his expression having now slid into something more relaxed, a tiny fraction more open.
“:Give me something,” he said.
“Sorry?”
Roger raised a hand and laid it, palm open and upwards, on the table.
“Something you won’t miss.”
Dan stared at the hand.
Roger sighed.
“Nothing else nearby belongs to me. Why should I ruin someone else’s things? You asked the question, not them.”
Dan’s eyes raised to meet Roger's, which now seemed to hold a tiny bit of amusement.
“Okay,” he said finally, placing the cup back on the table and reaching around to the rear of his wide belt, popping the clasp on the bulky little pocket and withdrawing his handcuffs.
“I’m going to break them,” Roger said, in a tone that gave Dan one last chance to rescue them.
“I’ve got others,” Dan said.
He placed the folded cuffs on the palm and withdrew his arm.
Roger simply bent his fingers in. It took an instant. A quiet squeal of metal and the palm opened. What had been a pair of handcuffs was now a mashed, jagged lump of gleaming steel in the palm.
“Son of a bitch...” Dan breathed slowly.
Roger emitted a small chuckle, raised his other hand and brought the palms together, the metallic lump between them. It looked as if he was expending no more effort than Dan himself would use to dry his hands on a soft towel.
Roger’s hands shifted around, back and forth, the palms rubbing, then he extended one of them with a down-turned fist and opened the fingers.
A gleaming, smooth, silver lump dropped with a light thunk to the table.
Dan stared down at it, dumbfounded.
“And this,” Dan said slowly, “Is where I say ‘How the Hell did you do that?”
Roger actually snorted with genuine amusement.
“So say it.”
Dan looked up at him.
“Okay. How the Hell did you do that?”
Roger leaned forward, and Dan could see he was now relaxed, clearly more at ease.
“I don’t know. I’ve never known how. I could always just do it.”
Dan snatched a look at him.
“Anything else you can do?”
Roger leaned back.
“I can’t be hurt. By anything.”
Dan stared at him.
“So, what… if I was to take out my weapon and shoot you in the chest, what would happen?”
“I’d be disappointed. But if you need to, go right ahead.”
Dan glanced around.
“Not in here, thanks. But what would happen? Seriously.”
“Nothing,” Roger said simply. “The bullet would flatten and drop to the floor, that’s all.”
Dan considered this a moment.
“Fire?” he asked, his tone curious.
Roger gave a sour look and raised his hands to indicate the condition of his shirt.
“Explosions?”
Roger sh
ook his head and reached to gently raise his cup.
“A nuke?”
Finishing his sip, Roger shook his head.
“Don’t think so,” he said casually.
“What about disease? Getting sick.”
Roger carefully lowered his cup.
“Nope.”
Dan stared at him as he considered.
“So… you’re incredibly strong… and you are invulnerable to injury.”
Roger nodded but shot a warning glance at Dan as he leaned back once more.
“If you mention that asshole in the red cape and booties with the big “S” on his underwear, I’ll flatten your car into a pancake.”
Dan’s brows rose and he nodded.
“Right. You must get that a lot.”
Roger shook his head with a little sigh.
“Not often. I try not to let anybody know. I don’t want anybody to know. I’m just a guy, that’s all. I’m just ordinary.”
“Okay,” Dan responded slowly.
After a moment he leaned forward again.
“But you don’t think it’s wrong, what you can do, do you? I mean, it isn’t bad, just being what it is. You seem like a good guy. A decent man.”
Roger gave a weak shrug, and again his eyes began to drift.
“Yeah, well…” he muttered.
“Must have been tough, growing up.”
Again Roger snorted quietly.
“No kidding. My mom, she…”
He paused, seemed to gather himself a moment before continuing.
“I broke her arm when I was a year old. Just a kid, flailing around while she was holding me. Broke it clean through. Up until then she didn’t know I couldn’t be hurt. But when that happened she dropped me. I landed on my head. Broke the floorboards. After that she took to wearing this… armor thing she created. Football pads, helmet, padded sweat suit. It helped some, but I still wound up hurting her sometimes.”
He paused, licked his lips, his mind cast back to those uncomfortable memories.
“I didn’t go to an actual school until I was sixteen. Until she was sure I understood that I was… different. She taught me herself before that. Kept me home. Kept me… safe. She was a good lady.”
“What about your dad.”
Roger gave a sour, twisted smile.
“Well, we never played catch.”
Dan nodded slowly.
Class Fives: Origins Page 8
