Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa?

by Andrez Bergen

  “Coffee?” Louise asked, from over near a doorway that led to an expansive kitchen.

  “Sure.” He nodded. “Love one.”

  “Tea for me,” spoke up the Professor, as he sat close to Jack on the other side of a small, low oval table. “All that caffeine keeps me awake.”

  “In case it escaped your notice,” Louise called out while waltzing into the other room, “tea has more caffeine than coffee.”

  “Ahh, then that’s what keeps me awake all night,” he chuckled.

  “Louise says you’re an inventor, sir.”

  “Sir? You make me sound like a schoolmaster. Prof will do,” he insisted, at the same time reaching over and patting the Equalizer’s knee. “And, yes, I suppose I am an inventor in my free time, away from the ball-and-chain the antique store has become. Are you interested in the sciences?”

  “More the outcome than the process itself.”

  “I say, that’s very cluey of you.”

  “I know my limitations. What do you make?”

  “Oh…this and that. Mostly silly gadgets. I’m currently working with Vita-Rays.”

  “You mentioned. What exactly are they?”

  “I’m not quite sure. More importantly, there’s a loose connection on my printed circuit projecto-analyzer. You wouldn’t have a screwdriver handy, by chance?”

  “Er…not on me.”

  Jack gazed at the other man, unsure if the Professor was deliberately playing it vague, or genuinely absent-minded.

  “Mens sana in corpore sano,” the old man muttered. “A sound mind in a sound body — that is my goal in life, Jack. My dream.”

  #121

  Louise was asleep beside Jack on top of her twin-size, scrolled iron bed. Propped up against the bars was the brunette doll Tarpé Mills, looking straight at him.

  They’d played it above-board, engaging in conversation with the Professor and waiting patiently for him to go to bed. Even so, Jack judged from his twinkling expression and slight smile that the old man had suspicions regarding what was afoot. Likely, he knew a lot more than his guest.

  Aside from furtive kisses on the doorstep and much recent hand play, Jack had never before touched a girl. Even the doll staring back was unnerving.

  He didn’t tell Louise that; couldn’t. He was certain his clumsiness and apprehension were evidence enough, but the girl proved patient and considerate, helping him through the audition.

  Louise had removed her glasses, slowly unbuttoned her dress, stood before him in a white satin slip and stockings — and then unbuttoned his shirt, too, as he had not moved a muscle. Given the earlier revelation about her husband’s death, Jack thanked lucky stars he’d ditched the costume.

  Throughout everything, he was held hostage by her gaze, which said so much in a myriad of subtle forms: tenderness, happiness, sadness and mischief each had their moment in the emerald sunlight of those eyes.

  For a long time after, they sat on the iron bed in an embrace, simply holding onto one another. When she came closer still and kissed his mouth, he wanted to hang on to her forever.

  “You’re a gentle man, Jack,” Louise murmured, between kisses. “Thank you.”

  Eventually, the girl fell asleep on his arm.

  Jack stayed awake, studying every facet of the face close beside his. So happy he felt swamped — this kind of joy was far beyond him — the man swivelled his head and instead examined every inch of the ceiling. The sound of her breathing had a calming effect as he did so.

  Finally, Jack slipped his arm out from under Louise; he lifted himself onto one elbow and stared briefly at the serene profile on the pillow inches away.

  Easy enough to push aside her blonde tresses, to make out — in the poor light — a ‘p’ on the back of her neck, beneath the collar-line.

  Beside the bed, Louise had a round fish tank with seahorses in it. Jack leaned over, dipped his finger, and quietly returned to dab at the p. The ink there was as indelible as a tattoo.

  Jack eased her hair down and tidied it, glanced at Tarpé Mills, gave her a smile.

  Okay.

  PATR10T CLA1MS

  #122

  The Port Phillip Patriot, located at 335/1000 Broadway, occupied a twenty-two-storey art-deco office tower. Compared with the bulk of the city’s surrounding architecture, this rendered the building a pygmy, but what the place lacked in height was made up for with largesse unto itself.

  Take, for example, the long-winded slogan above the entrance, hand-carved across two metres in a flowing font, all inlaid mother-of-pearl and gold leaf:

  A great crag rising from the sea, clinging with sea flora and fauna, tinted in sea-green, touched with gold.

  This went some way toward capturing the wayward spirit that hallmarked the interior.

  Jack rode to the tenth floor in an elevator of polished brass, copper and jade. Decorating the walls in the corridor up there were etchings of sea snails, skate, crabs, turtles, carp, scallops, seaweed, sea horses, mermaids and other marine paraphernalia. They made him feel like he was stuck in an aquarium built by Frida Kahlo.

  He knocked on a door that had a panel of frosted glass, with the simple words ‘G.A. Stellar, Chief Reporter’ neatly arranged across it, sans marine life.

  “Yeah?” he heard. Jack took this as a summons to enter.

  The room beyond the neat door was its obverse — all disarray, stacks of paper and books, unclosed filing cabinets, and a broken set of Venetian blinds. A big pin board hung crookedly, crammed with various pictures and newspaper clippings.

  In the middle of the room, beneath a rotating ceiling fan, was a wooden desk suffering under the weight of a huge metal typewriter that rode roughshod. There were unfinished cups of what once possibly resembled coffee, and they surrounded a black candlestick phone that had the number 214782 sticky-taped to its trunk.

  The place looked devoid of intelligent life, until Jack spotted a patch of hair bobbing about on the other side of the desk, too low to see a face from the door.

  This person was obviously preoccupied, so he cleared his throat. A pair of eyes instantly swept over the desk.

  “Well, that’s subtle.”

  “Miss Stellar?”

  “That’s the moniker — overwork it and I’ll throttle you.”

  “Do you have a minute?”

  The reporter breathed out in loud fashion and slowly stood. At first Jack caught her aquiline nose, but then she turned to face him and it disappeared.

  “So who are you, and what do you want?”

  “We’ve met before.”

  “We have?” Her eyes conducted a once-over of his blue pinstripe. “Nice-looking suit you have there. Tailored. Quality material. You’ve got a budget. Banking?

  “No. I work with the Equalizers.”

  Stellar’s previously pert mouth formed a round circle. “That so?”

  “I’m Southern Cross.”

  “You know, you’re not supposed to go round telling people that.”

  “I know. We met briefly outside Harvey’s Gems.”

  “The heist? I remember. It’s not often we have a Cape making a house call — next time phone ahead, and I’ll pretend to tidy up.”

  “Funny.”

  “Hilarious.”

  They stared at one another for several seconds, until Jack broke the silence.

  “I have a favour to ask.”

  “Strange thing to bounce off someone you met only once — and on that occasion she called you a kewpie doll.”

  “You’re forgetting the daggers you steered my way.”

  “Oh, I steer those at everyone. So — what are you asking?”

  “You’re a reporter.”

  “That’s what I claim. Others maintain I’m a hack.”

  Jack noticed a calendar on the cluttered wall, positioned behind the desk. This was opened at September and had a picture — another of those monochrome sketches that dominated everything in Heropa — of Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. Jack knew this becaus
e the name of the place was printed beneath the picture.

  “Go on,” the woman urged, with an impatient edge.

  “I’m looking into the death of a Blando.”

  “Really?” The reporter leaned forward. “Now you interest me. Why?”

  “Long story.”

  “I have time. It’s also my job to listen.”

  “It may be nothing.”

  “Allow me to judge.”

  “You know, you do like pushing people.”

  “Usually after lobbing those daggers.”

  “Well, okay. I’m after two things, actually — also information relating to the death of the Aerialist.”

  Stellar sat back, annoyed. “And I thought you were interesting.”

  “Well, that’s where number two comes in — another death, this time of the Blando.” Jack sat on the few centimetres of clean desk, over in the corner nearest him. “I’m guessing nobody bothers to keep any records of Blando fatalities.”

  “Not true — we do. To a point.”

  “What point would that be, Miss Stellar?”

  “Gypsie-Ann.”

  “Okay. Call me Jack.”

  The reporter raised her eyebrows. “You do like breaking your rules.”

  “And the point you were talking up?”

  She nodded. “The Patroit compiles the names of the people killed in Heropa, but often these lists are too big to publish in the obituaries section, and some people are never identified.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You can imagine the shape of many of the corpses. We have gophers, our cadets, who try to find the owners of body parts, but they’re not always successful. Still, we keep a database here on everyone we can.”

  “I’m looking a few months back.”

  “That could be tricky. We have a twenty-four-hour window in which to find out the names — after that, friends and family, as well as our cadets, simply forget they existed. The Reset. A clean slate.”

  “But if that’s the case, how does the Patriot — a paper run by Blandos — report things from the day before, without also forgetting?”

  “Easy. The morning edition goes to press in the evening, before midnight, and it’s delivered before dawn.”

  “A simple system.”

  “It functions. Events here change daily, thanks to the Capes, but you’ll find some articles we run — about the mayor and his corrupt minions — are the same every day. I get creative and change wording — the next morning’s news is fresh to everyone at the newspaper aside from me.”

  Gypsie-Ann then pursed her lips, clearly annoyed.

  “Lately — lately — that’s been changing. One of the copy-editors this morning pulled me up for running similar articles two days running. Embarrassing stuff.”

  “Excruciating.”

  She broke out in a smile. “Sarcastic tongue you’ve got there.”

  “Special training. Anyhow, I’ve been told Blandos don’t revive like the rest of Heropa after those twenty-four hours you mentioned.”

  “Injured ones recuperate, but you’re right — the dead stay dead.”

  “Why is that?”

  “No need? Plenty of other people to act as fodder for you fool Capes. The same rule applies to us — possibly it has to do with live organic matter versus dead. I haven’t worked that out yet. But Blandos’ memories are wiped, whereas ours are not.”

  “Then how about a Blando remembering a death from months ago?”

  “That would be…highly unusual.”

  “Not impossible?”

  “I never use the word. Can you be more specific about the John or Jane Doe?”

  “A bystander killed in a tussle between Capes.”

  “Well, that goes without saying. Anything more solid?”

  “Name of Sekrine.”

  “S-E-K-R-I-N-E?”

  “I think so.”

  “First name? — I assume Sekrine is the family name.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Stellar blew out loudly again and looked at her visitor.

  “Without luck, this will take forever to find, if I find it at all. We have no computers here — there’re none in Heropa. They like to keep things old school. So, everything’s on paper, stored away in the archives. I need some incentive. What’s the slant?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I do need to find out the circumstances of his death.”

  “So it’s a he? You could’ve told me that before.”

  “Does it help?”

  “Nope.” The reporter glanced at the door, and then nodded to herself. “Tell you what, how about you doing the legwork? Here’s a key to the archive, which is on the thirteenth floor. I’ll write you a note to give the guard there. But if you find anything untoward — you tell me right away, and it’s my story. Deal?”

  “I’m not sure. This is personal. It mightn’t be something I want written up in a neat little article.”

  “Deal or not?”

  “You sure are pushy.”

  “I know. But I’ll be discreet — won’t run with anything without your approval.”

  “Deal.”

  Gypsie-Ann passed over a bronze barrel key with a decorative open eye attached to the end, and then began scrawling something on a scrap of paper that had a coffee ring across it. As she did so, the woman once again pursed her lips — obviously a habit. She handed Jack the letter.

  “There’s something else. See this?”

  She held up her right thumb, which was wrapped in a peeling Band-Aid.

  “Paper cut, I get them all the time. This one I did yesterday — but it hasn’t healed overnight like it should do with the Reset.”

  Jack grinned. “Funny you mention that — I still have bruising from our tussle with the Rotters two days ago. And I’m not talking up phantom pains.”

  “Trouble with the idI hardware?”

  “Injuries hanging round, Blandos recalling the day before yesterday. Sounds like this Reset thing is on the blink.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Speaking of interesting, I read your article on the death of Rabble Rouser.”

  Stellar studied him. “Don’t tell me you’re another critic.”

  “No, not at all. But I was curious — how’d you figure out it wasn’t a suicide?”

  “Ah, the theory.”

  The woman smirked as she stood, circled the desk, swept up a letter opener — a katana blade in six-inch miniature — and held this against Jack’s neck.

  “It’s hard to cut your own throat, especially in the manner established by the police coroner, Doc McCoy — a slash from right ear to left, like this.”

  She softly moved the letter opener around, still touching the skin, and Jack found the demonstration unpleasant.

  “That kind of self-mutilation would normally be done by a south paw, whereas Double-R was right-handed. At least, it’s fair to assume he was right-handed since that was where the pen was sitting.”

  “Smart thinking.”

  “Saw it once in a movie. Besides, why electrocute yourself after cutting your throat?”

  “And the note?”

  “Likely incidental — did you know him? The man was a no-hoper. Maybe he was drafting up an autobiography.”

  “Of four words?”

  “As I say. No-hoper.”

  “What was your opinion of the Aerialist?”

  The reporter smiled. “A nice girl.” She speedily held up a hand when Jack moved to speak. “Hold your horses — I know what people say about O and her.”

  “Was it true?”

  “To be honest, it’s possible. I resolved never to ask.”

  “Because you were involved with the Big O.”

  “Old news. But — yes. A lot of men, and women too, fell for the Aerialist. She had something special, and it wasn’t just the pretty jetpack.”

  Jack nodded. “What about Sir Omphalos?”

  “To my mind, Sir O took her under his wing because he was paternal rath
er than a potential innamorato. He was an honourable man I trusted completely. Others chose to see things…differently.”

  “Do you resent them for that? Or him?”

  “No. It’s the nature of this place. The Capes go on about honour and virtue, but most of the time their behaviour scrapes base level.”

  “You’re a Cape too.”

  “But never worn one.”

  “What was the Aerialist’s power?”

  The woman laughed. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “No one seems to know. How’d she die?”

  “Flying in pursuit of a Rotter, out past the stratosphere. Fell sixty-two miles to earth. As you can imagine, there was very little left afterward, but definitely no fuel — leading us to speculate someone sabotaged her jetpack.”

  Jack leaned forward through the rubbish on the desk and placed his elbows on the wood, in the midst of the disorder, chin in his palms.

  “You’re game!” Gypsie-Ann muttered.

  “Considering I used to rummage through trash cans, trying to locate my next meal, this is nothing.” Jack shrugged. “Back to the Aerialist — could it have been an accident? She simply forgot to refuel?”

  “There was a witness. PA saw her fill up the jetpack before the mission — not that PA is particularly reliable. But, by all reports, the Aerialist was. A very, very good Cape. The full five years in Heropa, originally with the Crime Crusaders Crew, and then one of the founding members of your Equalizers. It’s my belief that O was grooming her to take over leadership of the group.”

  “How did the GWH feel about that?”

  “A good question. What’s your interest in all this?”

  “Bear with me.”

  “You’ll answer my questions in return?”

  “Sure — I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  “Deal.”

  “Can we get back on track?”

  “Ready when you are, Jack. Do you know about her old nom de plume? No? The Aerialist used to call herself Bullet Gal. Handy with a firearm. A pistolero — but no maestro.”

  “That so?” Jack thought some. “The Rotter you mentioned, the one she was chasing when her jetpack ran out of juice. Who was it?”

  “Jetstarlet.”