_great_meeting. Look, if those guys had their way, we'd have about a march a month, andwe'd walk slowly down a route that we had a permit for, politely asking peopleto see our point of view. And in between, we'd have a million meetings likethis, where we come up with brilliant ideas like, 'Let's hand out fliers nexttime.'
"So what we do is, go along with them. Give them enough rope to hang themselves.Let 'em have four or five of those, until everyone who shows up is so bored,they'll do _anything_, as long as its not that.
"So, these guys want to stage a sit-in in front of the convention centre.Bo-ring! We wait until they're ready to sit down, then we start playing musicand turn it into a _dance-in_. Start playing movies on the side of the building.Bring in a hundred secret agents in costume to add to it. They'll never knowwhat hit 'em."
Hershie squirmed. These kinds of Machiavellian shenanigans came slowly to him."That seems kind of, well, disingenuous, Thomas. Why don't we just hold our ownmarch?"
"And split the movement? No, this is much better. These guys do all thepostering and phoning, they get a good crowd out, this is their natural role.Our natural role, my son," he placed a friendly hand on Hershie's capedshoulder, "is to see to it that their efforts aren't defeated by their ownpoverty of imagination. They're the feet of the movement, but we're its_laugh_." Thomas pulled out his comm and scribbled on its surface. "_They're thefeet of the movement, but we're its laugh_, that's great, that's one for thememoirs."
#
Hershie decided he needed to patrol a little to clear his head. He scooped trashand syringes from Grenadier Pond. He flew silently through High Park, earscocked for any muggings.
Nothing.
He patrolled the Gardner Expressway next and used his heat vision to melt someblack ice.
Feeling useless, he headed for home.
He was most of the way up Yonge Street when he heard the siren. A cop car,driving fast, down Jarvis. He sighed his father's sigh and rolled east, headinginto Regent Park, locating the dopplering siren. He touched down lightly on topof one of the ugly, squat tenements, and skipped from roof to roof, until hespotted the cop. He was beefy, with the traditional moustache and the flak vestthat they all wore on downtown patrol. He was leaning against the hood of hiscruiser, panting, his breath clouding around him.
A kid rolled on the ground, clutching his groin, gasping for breath. Hisinfrared signature throbbed painfully between his legs. Clearly, he'd beenkicked in the nuts.
The cop leaned into his cruiser and lowered the volume on his radio, then,without warning, kicked the kid in the small of the back. The kid rolled on theice, thrashing painfully.
Before Hershie knew what he was doing, he was hovering over the ice, between thecop and the kid. The cateyes embedded in the emblem on his chest glowed in thestreetlamps. The cop's eyes widened so that Hershie could see the whites aroundhis pupils
Hershie stared. "What do you think you're doing?" he said, after a measuredsilence.
The cop took a step back and slipped a little on the ice before catching himselfon his cruiser.
"Since when do you kick unarmed civilians in the back?"
"He -- he ran away. I had to catch him. I wanted to teach him not to run."
"By inspiring his trust in the evenhandedness of Toronto's Finest?" Hershiecould see the cooling tracks of the cruiser, skidding and weaving through theprojects. The kid had put up a good chase. Behind him, he heard the kid regainhis feet and start running. The cop started forward, but Hershie stopped himwith one finger, dead centre in the flak jacket.
"You can't let him get away!"
"I can catch him. Trust me. But first, we're going to wait for your backup toarrive, and I'm going to file a report."
A _Sun_ reporter arrived before the backup unit. Hershie maintained stonysilence in the face of his questions, but he couldn't stop the man fromlistening in on his conversation with the old constable who showed up a fewminutes later, as he filed his report. He found the kid a few blocks away,huddled in an alley, hand pressed to the small of his back. He took him to MountSinai's emerg and turned him over to a uniformed cop.
#
The hysterical _Sun_ headlines that vilified Hershie for interfering with thecop sparked a round of recriminating voicemails from his mother, filled withpromises to give him such a _zetz_ in the head when she next saw him. He foldedhis tights and cape and stuffed them in the back of his closet and spent a lotof time in the park for the next few weeks. He liked to watch the kids playing,a United Nations in miniature, parents looking on amiably, stymied by thelanguage barrier that their kids hurdled with ease.
On March first, he took his tights out of the overstuffed hall closet and flewto Ottawa to collect his pension.
He touched down on the Parliament Hill and was instantly surrounded byhigh-booted RCMP constables, looking slightly panicky. He held his hands up,startled. "What gives, guys?"
"Sorry, sir," one said. "High security today. One of Them is speaking inParliament."
"Them?"
"The bugouts. Came down to have a chat about neighbourly relations. Authorisedpersonnel only today."
"Well, that's me," Hershie said, and started past him.
The constable, looking extremely unhappy, moved to block him. "I'm sorry sir,but that's not you. Only people on the list. My orders, I'm afraid."
Hershie looked into the man's face and thought about hurtling skywards andflying straight into the building. The man was only doing his job, though."Look, it's payday. I have to go see the Minister of Defense. I've been doing itevery month for _years_."
"I know that sir, but today is a special day. Perhaps you could returntomorrow?"
"Tomorrow? My rent is due _today_, Sergeant. Look, what if I comm his office?"
"Please, sir, that would be fine." The Sergeant looked relieved.
Hershie hit a speed dial and waited. A recorded voice told him that the officewas closed, the Minister at a special session.
"He's in session. Look, it's probably on his desk -- I've been coming here foryears; really, this is ridiculous."
"I'm sorry. I have my orders."
"I don't think you could stop me, Sergeant."
The Sergeant and his troops shuffled their feet. "You're probably right, sir.But orders are orders."
"You know, Sergeant, I retired a full colonel from the Armed Forces. I _could_order you to let me past."
"Sorry sir, no. Different chain of command."
Hershie controlled his frustration with an effort of will. "Fine then. I'll beback tomorrow."
#
The building super wasn't pleased about the late rent. He threatened Hershiewith eviction, told him he was in violation of the lease, quoted the relevantsections of the Tenant Protection Act from memory, then grudgingly gave in toHershie's pleas. Hershie had half a mind to put his costume on and let the mansee what a _real_ super was like.
But his secret identity was sacrosanct. Even in the era of Pax Aliena, the SuperMan had lots of enemies, all of whom had figured out, long before, that even theinvulnerable have weaknesses: their friends and families. It terrified him tothink of what a bitter, obsolete, grudge-bearing terrorist might do to hismother, to Thomas, or even his old high-school girlfriends.
For his part, Thomas refused to acknowledge the risk; he'd was more worriedabout the Powers That Be than mythical terrorists.
The papers the next day were full of the overnight cabinet shuffle in Ottawa.More than half the cabinet had been relegated to the back-benches, and many oftheir portfolios had been eliminated or amalgamated into the new"superportfolios:" Domestic Affairs, Trade, and Extraterrestrial Affairs.
The old Minister of Defense, who'd once had Hershie over for Thanksgivingdinner, was banished to the lowest hell of the back-bench. His portfolio hadbeen subsumed into Extraterrestrial Affairs, and the new Minister, a youngup-and-comer named Woolley, wasn't taking Hershie's calls. Hershie called Thomasto see if he could loan him rent money.
Thomas laughed. "Chickens coming home to roost
, huh?" he said.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Hershie said, hotly.
"Well, there's only so much shit-disturbing you can do before someone sits upand takes notice. The Belquees is probably bugged, or maybe one of the commiesis an informer. Either way, you're screwed. Especially with Woolley."
"Why, what's wrong with Woolley?" Hershie had met him in passing at PrimeMinister's Office affairs, a well-dressed twenty-nine-year-old. He'd seemed likea nice enough guy.
"What's _wrong_ with him?" Thomas nearly screamed. "He's the fricken_antichrist_! He was the one that came up with the idea
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