by Peter Darley
Slowing down, he flew down a side street alongside the old Herland building and landed.
He looked around at the dilapidated fashion store. Typically, most of the windows had been vandalized.
He turned left along an alleyway and felt a chill running down his spine. There was something about this place that had an aura of menace.
Glancing behind him, he saw nobody was there and wondered if the call had been some kind of hoax.
He turned back again and headed toward the end of the alley. There seemed to be either another alley or a side street shooting off of it, close to the end.
And then he heard something behind him and turned around sharply. Four individuals in dark brown robes and hoods stood one hundred yards away from him. It mystified him how they could’ve appeared almost out of nowhere. They had arranged themselves in such a static, unified stance so quickly.
“All right,” he said. “I’m here. What happens now?”
They slowly came toward him.
“Come on. You gonna tell me what this is all about?”
“We want you, Brandon,” one of the men said.
“Only my mother and the president get to call me ‘Brandon’. And you’re neither, asshole. What do you want with me?”
“Join us, Brandon.”
He gritted his teeth with rage. “Join you? Are you out of your goddamn mind? How many millions have you killed? How many children and little babies? You honestly think I’d want to join monsters like you?”
“They had to die. There is a cancer spreading in this world. It disrupts the cosmic balance. Nobody is innocent. Those children were carriers of the disease of Original Sin.”
B.J. came toward them with a brisker pace, his fury at their coldness taking hold. “And you’re the carriers of original bullshit, but you don’t see me trying to annihilate you.”
“No, because you are the bringer of balance. Your father was a killer. A psychopath. But he gave life to you, and you are a hero who persistently places himself in jeopardy for the sake of others. You are pure in heart. You merely lack the light to show you the way of truth. You do believe in truth, don’t you, Brandon?”
“It depends on who I hear it from. And that sure isn’t you.”
“You are coming with us, Brandon.”
That’s the buzzer. B.J. activated the jet boots and hovered six feet above ground. “OK. Let’s dance.”
He heard footsteps and looked behind him. Four more of them emerged from the side street, and they were closing in.
The group ahead of him each drew out some kind of handheld, chrome device and pointed them toward him. A strange hum filled the air and the glass and mortar of the derelict building starting to crack. They’re hitting me with E.L.F. waves. “I’m way ahead of you. Or didn’t you know the armor is impervious to that shit now?”
“It will have its limits.”
The group behind him aimed their E.L.F. devices at him in the same way. He felt a sudden lull in the armor’s performance. It’s getting through the foil.
He reached out his right arm and fired a shot of sonic force at the group in front, launching them almost two hundred yards back.
He felt himself struggling to stay in the air. He knew if he touched the ground, the E.L.F. waves would have more of an effect than ever. However, he was confident he didn’t need the armor’s features to take these clowns.
He touched the ground and assumed a combat stance. The four hooded challengers ran toward him. His right, armor-clad leg shot out, catching the first attacker in the solar plexus. The man buckled in agony and crumpled on the floor, gasping for air.
Immediately, two more were upon him. He snapped the blade of his hand into the throat of the one on the left, leaving his opponent breathless and incapacitated. A well-placed punch to the jaw rendered the other one senseless.
That left one remaining. As he came closer, he could see the man’s face clearly underneath the hood—an androgynous character with a scar along the left side of his face, and a missing eye. He instantly realized this was the guy who’d attacked Heather and Woody in Los Angeles. “All right, slime ball. You think you can attack my girlfriend and my buddy and get away with it?”
B.J. moved his right leg forward in a skilfully-controlled, outward curve and bent his right knee with his left leg stretched backward. Locked in a deep grip stance, he drove his right fist toward his opponent’s head, shattering the nasal bone. The combined impact of trained, karate force with the metallic bludgeoning of the armored glove ensured the recipient’s next view would be from a hospital bed.
B.J. gazed at the unconscious man on the ground. The hood had fallen back, leaving his head exposed. Beyond the blood-spattered face, the man’s skin appeared to be unnaturally pale, as though he hadn’t seen sunlight for several years. He was completely bald, and the scar on his face and missing eye indicated a period of enormous suffering. For a fleeting moment, he almost felt pity for the guy.
He glanced behind him. The first four must have crawled away somewhere. The others were still writhing on the ground.
The digital readouts in the helmet’s visor became distorted. Within moments, the flashing, indecipherable view became intolerable.
Rosie’s voice came through the helmet’s speakers. “B.J., I saw everything. I don’t want you to worry. The distortion you’re seeing is the system rebooting itself. I have the complete readout in front of me. You were hit with huge levels of E.L.F. targeted directly at you, and at close range. It will pass.”
“Rosie, I can’t see a damn thing. I have to take it off.”
“No, B.J., don’t do that—”
Disregarding her, he removed the helmet and ran to the end of the alley. Peering into the side street, he saw it was clear and sprinted along it, hoping he could find cover while the armor’s system settled again.
He came to an inlet, which appeared to be the rear of an office building. Stealing himself into it, he braced himself behind a wall.
Many thoughts clouded his mind. Who were those guys? Where were they based? How could they keep appearing and disappearing? Where had they obtained the technology to cause so much devastation?
Several minutes passed. He heard footsteps and readied himself for action. Easing himself out from behind the wall, he looked to the left, but there was nobody there. He then looked to the right, but there was nothing other than a deserted side road.
Finally, he headed back to his position behind the wall, hoping the helmet was working again.
He felt a momentary sharp thud at the base of his skull, and then—oblivion.
Forty
World Without Interceptor
7:37 p.m.
The Testlab doors opened. Crane and Vice President Myers walked briskly toward Rosie, and she looked up with a start. There was clear worry in her eyes—her obvious concern that she’d committed a violation of protocol by allowing B.J. to take the INT-Nine without consulting the director.
“Professor Butler, I’d like to introduce Vice President Myers,” Jed said.
She acknowledged the dignitary with a hint of guilt on her face. “It’s an honor, Mr. Vice President.”
“Likewise, Professor,” Myers said. “But this situation is extremely serious, and we don’t have much time. Please tell us everything you know.”
“Of course. Gentlemen, if you’d care to join me at this console.” She started a two-dimensional playback on the monitor screen and set it to freeze frame. She then took a handwritten note from beside her and handed it to Crane. “When Agent Drake came down here, he wouldn’t tell me why he needed to take the INT-Nine. He wrote this and handed it to me. I hope it explains everything.”
Crane studied the brief note and then handed it to Myers. “Professor, I don’t want you to concern yourself about this,” Crane said, pre-empting her thoughts. “What else could you have done? He was too paranoid to even speak, which is why he wrote the note. If he hadn’t gone out there, or if he’d said anything, there�
�s every chance they would’ve leveled the city. Millions of lives were at stake.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I’d never felt so torn.”
“It’s OK. Please, show us what you’ve got.”
She released the freeze frame on the monitor playback while Crane and Myers moved in for a closer look. The playback began with shaky footage of B.J.’s point of view. The first images of him taking off from the Testlab were difficult to decipher. Rapid streaks of neon lit the screen as he soared over the rush hour traffic.
Crane immediately recognized the location where B.J. came into land. “That looks familiar.”
“It certainly does,” Myers said. “The old Herland store.”
Crane watched intently as the battle with the cult members unfolded.
Rosie gestured to the screen. “Those devices they’re pointing at him are emitting high levels of E.L.F directly at the armor.”
“And it had an effect?”
“I’m afraid so. The foil with which Tito lined the armor was formidable, but this was an extremely focused assault from all angles. It didn’t completely incapacitate the armor, but it had consequences, as you will see shortly.”
Crane marveled at B.J.’s skill as he engaged in hand-to-hand combat with his assailants. “Damn, that kid sure knows how to take care of himself. Combined with those alloy-clad mitts, those jerks must’ve wondered what the hell hit them.”
“That’s for sure,” Myers said.
And then the final attacker came into view. B.J. knocked him clean across the alleyway, leaving his face completely exposed.
“Professor, freeze it right there,” Crane said urgently.
Rosie hit freeze frame.
“All right, can you zoom in closer on that man’s face?”
“Certainly.”
Crane studied the bloodied face of the assailant. Something about it seemed familiar. Something Heather had said. “All right, for the sake of expediency, I want a hard copy print out of that one frame.”
“Yes, sir.”
They waited a few moments while Rosie printed off the image and handed it to Crane. She then resumed the video. “As you can see,” she said, “this is where the armor underwent a reboot attempt. Nothing is discernible. This continued for three minutes forty-seven seconds, when finally, the image shut down completely. They somehow knew how to deactivate the helmet. At that moment, Agent Drake disappeared.”
“Thank you, Professor.” Crane turned to Myers. “We need an FBI team dispatched to the old Herland building. Every inch of that area must be combed for clues.”
“I agree.”
Crane held up the printout Rosie had given to him. “I have to show this to Heather.”
“I’ll initiate the FBI operation,” Myers said, “and then I have some other business to attend to.”
“Sure.” Crane took Rosie’s hand. “Thank you for everything, Professor. Believe me, there wasn’t anything you could’ve done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Crane hurried along the corridor to Heather’s office and entered without knocking. “Thank you for waiting,” he said.
“What’s going on?” she said angrily. “And where’s B.J.”
Familiar with her essential, passionate temperament, her vexation was nothing less than he’d expected. “Please, Heather. Take a seat.”
She complied and sat at her desk.
“B.J. was called by C.O.T. They told him that if he didn’t meet with them, they’d level the city.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I know. He took the INT-Nine and met them on the north side of town. I’ve just seen the playback from the helmet’s video feed.” He looked away vacantly.
“I’m . . . I’m so sorry, Heather. They got him.”
She stood abruptly. “They got him?”
“Yes. The FBI is en route to the area where he was taken. Believe me, we’re doing everything we can to get him back.”
“How? You don’t even know who C.O.T. is, or where they’re holed up.”
“One step at a time. I need your help with something. You said when you were attacked in L.A., you got a look at one of them, an androgynous-looking man with a facial scar and a missing eye.” He handed her the print out. “Is this the man?”
She gazed at the image, bewildered. “Yes, but it can’t be.”
“What do you mean?”
“When was this taken?”
“It’s a scan from a video freeze frame. It was filmed about ninety minutes ago.”
“No, it can’t be.”
“Why not?”
“The men who attacked me chased Woody and I along the Golden State Freeway. It was all over the news. They were in an SUV and blew themselves up, suicide-mission-style.”
Crane was pensive for a moment, his mind racing through the possibilities. “Did you see this man in the SUV?”
“No, the windows were blacked out. I just knew it was them.”
“OK. Either he was in another transportation at the time, or the entire suicide mission gag was staged. It’s an old con. The authorities won’t look for you if they think you’re already dead. I’ll call the L.A.P.D. and find out what was left behind.”
“All right. But what about B.J.?”
“Right now, the world is without an Interceptor. This must be kept out of the media, Heather. At least until we know more.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Take some time off. Go to Dallas. His family are going to need you more than ever.”
“All right.”
Crane walked out of his office and approached his desk phone with a daunting sense of dread. After selecting a number in his autodial, he waited for a few moments until the call was answered. “Ty, it’s Jed.”
“Jed. How are you, buddy?”
“Not good, I’m sorry to say. Ty . . . I have some really bad news.”
Forty-One
On the Rise
“This is extremely unorthodox and highly unprofessional, Mr. Cole. Artists don’t usually just walk in off the street when they’re looking to secure a position with us.”
At any other time, Phil Cole knew he would’ve felt intimidated, almost rebuked at Cosmic Comic’s director Simon Dredo’s words. But not this time. He sat, for the first time in his adult life, in a suit and tie Sharon had helped him to buy, shaved and groomed. It was the best he’d ever looked. He rejoiced, almost gloatingly, as he sat across the desk of the portly, middle-aged, comic book magnate. “With all due respect, sir, I’ve submitted my work through the correct channels countless times, and received nothing but the standard rejection. I just think you should hear me out on this. That’s all I ask.”
“Mr. Cole, don’t take that personally. We receive over ten thousand artist submissions every year. We can’t possibly entertain every one of them. Chances are, you didn’t even get a look in.”
“I appreciate your honesty, sir.”
“And I admire your tenacity. So, what do you have to show me? Be aware, we’ll have to do this quickly. I have a meeting.”
Phil picked up his briefcase from beside the chair, opened it up, took out a Z-Screen tablet, and turned on the player. Holo-footage of his visit to the cabin in Aspen began. “Please, just take a look at this.”
“What am I looking at?” Dredo said.
Phil sat back proudly. “That’s me and my friend, Woody, walking around the home of Brandon Drake, the original Interceptor.”
Dredo scowled, clearly suspicious. “This could be anywhere. How do I know this is really Brandon Drake’s cabin?”
Phil stood and moved around to Westbrook’s side of the desk. “This is the part coming up now.” Phil knew the footage was undeniable. It was an unbroken pan around to the back of the cabin. He glanced sideways and watched Dredo’s eyebrows rise. “Yes, sir. That is, indeed, The Interceptor’s gravestone.”
The publisher looked up at him with an astonished expression. “How did you find this place?”
“Perseverance.” He gestured to the holo-screen again. “Here’s what the cabin looks like inside.”
Dredo watched intently, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I’ve made a few digital illustrations of it,” Phil said. “Here, let me show you.” He stopped the movie and searched through his files, quickly finding his art renditions. “Stay with me. This is just the tip of the iceberg.” He switched to another file showing detailed, artwork of the new Interceptor armor. “What do you think?”
“How did you get such precise details of the new Interceptor? Did you make it up?”
Phil smiled confidently. “I know the new Interceptor.”
“How?”
“I also know who he really is.”
“How do you know the new Interceptor?”
Phil checked his Z-Watch. “Would you mind turning the TV on? The Channel 7 news will just be starting.”
“The Channel 7 news?”
“Trust me. It’ll be worth your while.”
Dredo switched on the TV and the transmission began.
Phil watched as Dredo studied the broadcast. He knew the older guy wouldn’t have a clue what to expect.
After a replay of Heather Addison’s interview on Channel 7, Anchorwoman, Josie Ryland, announced the first television appearance of Woody Schuster.
Phil was startled as he beheld Woody—smartly dressed for the first time ever, with his hair slicked back. He even had a hint of a suntan. I can’t believe you went to a goddamn tanning salon, Wood. The way in which his friend carried himself on the studio sofa seemed so much more confident than usual. “Mr. Dredo, this is my friend, Woody. He’s the guy who was with me at the cabin. This is how it all began.”
“So, Woody,” Josie began. “This is a truly remarkable story. You rescued Heather Addison on the night her advisors were murdered.”
“Seems that way,” Woody said. “I just drove over to get her autograph.”
“And what happened then?”
