Wearing the Cape 4: Small Town Heroes

by Marion G. Harmon

  She said it nicely, for her anyway, not implying that I should have thought of all this. It didn’t help; I’d made the mistake of thinking that human Shelly meant the same Shelly who’d impulsively jumped to her death at the age if fifteen, just with some memories added. Stupid, stupid, stupid, Hope! Then I’d cheered at the idea of her going just back to school, like she wasn’t any different and the last two years hadn’t happened. Why hadn’t Shelly laughed in my face?

  Obviously deciding she’d given me enough time, Ali stood up.

  “The plan while you’re here is to plug you into Shelly’s own intern role while you are not working with the sheriff’s office. Shelly has been focused on data-mining for patterns behind events recorded in what she likes to call the Big Book. I don’t know how useful you will be, but while you are here you have been given to the Oroboros to offer…field perspective. And I would appreciate it if you could keep Shelly happy and not distract her.”

  She actually smiled, with the possibility of real warmth this time, and shook my hand again while I fumbled for the right answer to her underwhelming expectations. “The girl really is one of the best minds in the building.”

  * * *

  Ali led me back down to the lobby, where Veritas mysteriously reappeared. He kindly ignored my befuddlement; if my head hadn’t been still trying to wrap itself around how badly I’d misunderstood my BF and what she needed, I’d have started to feel like a package the way they handed me off.

  This time he drove us less than three blocks, back onto what passed for their main street, pulling into a diagonal parking space while I was still thinking over everything that had just happened.

  “This is your last stop,” he said cheerfully. “Then I’ll take you to settle in.”

  “Where—”

  He pointed at the bronze plaque on the single-story brick building in front of us. Littleton Sheriff’s Office.

  He pulled out his cellphone. “Sheriff Deitz will orient you while I make some calls.”

  Okay… I got out, looking up and down the quiet street. Nobody nearby looked at all alarmed or even curious to see a cape get out of a truck. Squaring my shoulders, I pushed through the door.

  And blinked. It really was a sheriff’s office—in fact it reminded me of the one in Grand Beach: it was all wood paneling, with a big open space with three desks and extra chairs for people there on business. A huge photographic map showing everything from the X marking the Garage’s entry-point in the south to the lake bordering the north side of town covered one wall. A wood rail divided the visitor’s area with more chairs from the business side. It even had the cells in one corner, keeping everybody together in one big public room that was empty now except for Sheriff Deitz. Deitz, and I should have recognized the name.

  “Astra.” He looked up from his desk when I came through the door, then stood up and came around it, hand out. I pushed through the gate at the rail and we shook. “Glad that you made it. Did Veritas drop you? I can get your bags.”

  “No you can’t. Well you probably could, but you’d sprain something and anyway he’s outside—” I stopped talking. Same long-jawed, earnest face, same “How can I help you, ma’am?” attitude. Same small-town sheriff, except that he should have been in Grand Beach. I was meeting far too many people I knew today, and I took a breath. “Hi, Sheriff. It’s good to see you again.” When I’m not under arrest, and what are you doing here?

  “You know, you can take off the—”

  “I know.” I took another breath and finally pulled off the mask and wig. Shaking out my bob I tried a smile.

  He returned it. “That wasn’t so hard, right? Sweet is out right now, but she’ll be happy to see you.”

  “Angel is here, too?”

  “It’s a small world. When your little fight in Grand Beach last year put a media spotlight on the place, they rotated us both in here.” He waved to a chair. “I never got a chance to tell you, good work with Villains Inc. Glad it turned out well; I see they gave you the badge.”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Really? They didn’t tell you anything?”

  I shook my head and he sighed. Leaning back, he propped his feet up on his desk.

  “That figures. Let’s start at the top. What do you know about Littleton?”

  “Population five thousand, give or take? You use it for Witness Protection? Really, what is this place?”

  “Brigadoon.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry.” His easy smile showed dimples. “Bad joke. About eight years ago, one of the crazier Verne-types working out of the Navy base labs got tired of the heat and decided to create himself a little home away from home. He was from Wisconsin. It took a while for the Navy guys to figure out where he was disappearing to and coming back from with lake fish you don’t find in Cuba. Littleton is an extra-reality pocket.”

  Extra-reality: the first time I heard the term I’d thought it applied to virtual reality, but it was meant like extraterrestrial –something outside of our reality. Like Hypertime, or the Teatime Anarchist’s potential futures. Or where Ozma said she came from. Brigadoon. Now I got the reference, and it didn’t make me happy. Shelly had said—

  “We’re in another reality?”

  “The Littleton Pocket. That flash you saw back in the Garage? That tuned you to Littleton’s ‘frequency’, whatever that really means.”

  I tried to control my breathing, almost floated out of my chair. “How big is it? How do you get out?”

  “All you’ve got to do is fly high enough, you’ll pop right out of the bubble and be hanging over Cuba. Of course you might have a problem with the anti-air defense system locking onto you with Stinger missiles. If you need to fly out, hugging the ground and getting over the hills to the west takes you away from the bay. Walking or driving out is okay. We stick to the entry-point at the Garage for obvious reasons. All you’ve got to do is step across the boundary—it’s not really sealed from the inside.”

  “That…that’s good to know.”

  He frowned and leaned forward.

  “Are you okay? It takes a lot of people that way, when they first realize they’re ‘somewhere else’. The point is, Littleton’s an easy place to leave, but not an easy place to get to. You could know right where it is, but unless you’re translated through the Garage it might as well be on Mars.”

  I made an effort to pull myself together. Like you haven’t seen lots weirder things than a town that isn’t there. “I can see where that would be attractive to Witness Protection, hiding out in another reality.”

  “Complete signals blackout, too. People, and the stuff we brought in with us, are the only things that can ‘fall back’ into the world. Nothing on the electromagnetic spectrum crosses over either way except through the Garage’s translator system.”

  “So, everybody here is a researcher or a protected witness?”

  “More or less. Plus political refugees, Witness Protection guests, Institute staff, teachers for the school, the kinds of service and civic people every town needs to run smooth. And us.”

  “And us. Me?” I reached up and touched the deputy’s badge.

  “And you. Somebody thought it would be a good idea to take advantage of you while you’re here. And you might like something to do. You can get cats out of trees.”

  I found myself grinning. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  * * *

  Sheriff Deitz, Paul, showed me “my” desk and issued me a special deputy phone. He also told me I could text out or send files, the exchange linked to the naval base and from there to the world through a repeater system, but to phone home I’d have to go back to the Garage, the secure building Veritas and I came in through.

  Angel hadn’t gotten back yet, but he didn’t expect anything else tonight. Which was good; Littleton might be its own little world, but it was a world synced with Eastern Standard Time so they were an hour ahead of me and the whole day was starting to hit me hard anyway. He followed me out the door a
nd watched as I climbed back in the truck, giving Veritas a nod as my handler shifted into reverse and backed us out.

  “So are you square?” he asked as we drove down the street and around a corner.

  “Gun in the nightstand. Got it.”

  “Good girl. And here we are.”

  I looked around; we’d barely come two blocks, and he pulled us up in front of a yard with low hedges fronting a gabled house of an architectural style at least a century old (with Dad’s restoration hobby, I would know). The big tree in the front yard looked just as old as the architecture, which told me they’d either built around whatever the extrareality pocket’s Verne-Type had created or they’d brought in a pretty powerful florakinetic or a versatile sorceress to “age” the town’s trees.

  And obviously I was done for the day if my mind was wandering away thinking about the age of local trees.

  “Holybrook Rest,” Veritas waved at the house; all that the place needed was snow to look like a holiday Hallmark card. “Best bed-and-breakfast in town. The two of them will take care of you.”

  I climbed out and got my bag. He didn’t.

  “The two of them? Aren’t you—”

  “Miles to go before I sleep, and it won’t be here. See you around town.” He shifted to first and drove away with a wave, leaving me once again to watch him go. I was beginning to think the man liked being mysterious. Or maybe he just liked doing it to me.

  I hooked my go-bag over my shoulder. The walk up to the door had been planted with spring flowers, and the curlicue letters on the glass spelling out Holybrook Rest shouted taste and class. A bell over my head tinkled cheerfully when I pushed through the door into the cozy lobby.

  “Welcome, Ms. Corrigan!” my host greeted me, and I stopped short before recovering. He didn’t fit the postcard picture. Dark skinned, bearded, accent something Middle-Eastern—Iranian?—with diction that screamed “fancy English school,” he instantly made me think of the evil vizier from Disney’s Aladdin.

  Which just had to be wrong; after all, Littleton was the safest place not on Earth, right? I still almost checked his shoulder for a smirking parrot.

  “May I take your bag?”

  “No— I’m sorry, I’m not being rude. It weighs more than two hundred pounds.”

  “I see. Well then, come right this way.” He led me up the stairs, asking in friendly fashion how my flight had been. “Of course the Institute let us know you were coming,” he supplied before I asked. The room he showed me was small but warmly welcoming, with a west-facing window that captured the evening sunlight. It had its own bathroom with a claw footed tub and everything was spotless and shiny, nothing worn. “Will this be acceptable?”

  He sounded perfectly ready to order in carpenters and interior decorators if it wasn’t, and I nodded automatically. His smile deepened.

  “Very good then, I will leave you to your rest. Breakfast is served in the dining room at seven, and if you desire breakfast earlier or later cereal and fruit are always available. Good night.”

  He handed me the key and closed the door behind him with perfect silence, and I stared at it for a moment. Although the room was still warm and comfortable, part of the easy peace that had wrapped itself around me went with him and now I just felt tired.

  A small table by the door held an old-fashioned house phone, and I picked up the card beside it. Under a boldly printed phone number it read Holybrook Rest, Ibrahim Darvish, proprietor.

  I put the card down and unpacked.

  The wardrobe didn’t exactly have a place to hang my armor and maul, so I lined them up beside the bed where they looked ridiculously out of place with the patterned wallpaper and wainscoting. The rest went into the wardrobe and dresser: one spare field uniform, one set of casual civvies, one carefully packed “formal” costume (because you never knew), basic field gear, toiletries, several changes of underwear, and…glasses? Opening the little case, I discovered that someone—probably Nix—had slipped me a pair of Ozma’s Anonymity Specs. I sat on the bed and just looked at them.

  Why? For the first time since flying out of the Dome, I remembered her other gift and pulled off my glove.

  The snug lace ring—moonmoth silk?—still hugged my finger. My glove hadn’t smooshed it at all, and the tiny bow glowed almost impossibly white in the last beams of sunlight. Touching it brought a ghost of the petal kiss back to my cheek. She’d said not to take it off until I had to. She’d told me twice.

  And now the specs. Like I’d need to be anonymous here.

  Outside, the weird streetlamps were coming on as dusk settled on the town. What was going on? And really, what was I doing here?

  Chapter Eleven

  “According to the Littleton Almanac, today will be sunny with light breezes and occasional clouds, with a light rain after midnight when no-one is out to look at the stars. Tomorrow will give us a light rain at ten in the morning, but you real rain-lovers will have to wait two weeks from Saturday for the first big storm of the season. It will feature thunder and a great lightning show around six in the evening.”

  Littleton Radio weather report.

  * * *

  I stretched deliciously, opened my eyes, and the little girl sitting at the foot of my bed smiled shyly.

  “Good morning!” she chirped. Long dark hair, warm brown skin, deep black eyes, arms folded around a much-loved teddy bear, she waited to see what I would do next.

  “Save me from the cuteness.” I covered my eyes, peeked between two fingers. “Nope. Still here.”

  She laughed, bouncing. “Silly! It’s time for breakfast!”

  “And you’re my adorable little alarm clock?”

  ”Yes!” She nodded the way only little kids can, like their necks are made of rubber. I looked at the clock on the nightstand. Fifteen minutes till breakfast.

  I kicked my feet up and down under the covers, bouncing her and making her giggle. “Then go tell your dad I’ll be down to eat. Shoo. Go brighten his morning.”

  She scrambled off the bed and out the door, and I skinned out of my sleep shirt and shorts, wrapped a waterproof bandage from my field kit around Ozma’s lace ring to protect it, and showered fast. Then I spent a long moment looking at my costume. If I wasn’t officially functioning as Astra, girl-superhero, it just felt too weird to walk around in uniform. Fortunately I did have civies, even if only white shorts and a blue athletic shirt, matching sneakers. I pulled everything on in a moment, clipped the deputy’s badge to a belt-loop, tidied up and went downstairs.

  “Astra,” General Rajabhushan greeted me at the breakfast table. Doctor Hall sat across from him, both in their soldier and scholar uniforms. My little alarm clock wasn’t there, which was too bad—I’d been looking forward to a side of giggles with my eggs. Was she the number two of the two who would take care of me?

  A cozy-wrapped coffee pot flanked by cream and sugar sat in the center of the table, and the general courteously poured for me. It wasn’t quite up to Jacky’s standards but definitely four-star hotel quality, and before I’d done more than properly appreciate it our host appeared with a menu card to bid me good morning and ask what I would like to try—which was anything and everything.

  Breakfast talk covered the weather (and like in the musical Camelot, in Littleton it never rained till after sundown), the spring blossoms (beautiful and once again on schedule), and the breakfast (fantastic). I told everyone about my alarm clock, which won indulgent chuckles around the table. The general showed me pictures of his children while Dr. Hall focused on his food. Breakfast done, the general asked if I was joining them at the Institute. I shook my head.

  “I am sorry, but no. I need to phone home, first.”

  “Of course.” He nodded. “I am sure you have other duties here as well. Come when you can.”

  Stepping outside, I looked back at the B&B. Above the trees the sky looked like a Maxfield Parish painting, stacked landscapes of white cotton clouds against a pale blue heaven. Only the weird white streetla
mps broke the illusion of perfect mundane, normalcy. Part of me wanted to go back inside, find a comfortable window-seat, and settle in with a good book or maybe with the princess of the house.

  Instead I lifted off.

  Late in the night it had become obvious to me that the DSA had planned for my indefinite stay; I was here until the town burned or they caught Kitsune or otherwise managed to neutralize the threat. It only made sense, but while I couldn’t regret my impulsive decision to help I’d been telling the general the truth—I desperately needed to phone home.

  Yeah, way to be grown up.

  A quick call to Sheriff Deitz expanded what he told me yesterday; the Garage kept a phone service for anyone who wanted more than relayed texting or emailing and my phone had an app that I could use to reserve a booth. I accessed the app and learned that weekday mornings were low-traffic –I’d find a booth waiting for me.

  After nearly two years of being careful, flying in public out of costume felt weird but got me there faster than a car.

  Exiting Littleton meant just crossing the boundary but it made sense that the Garage was the only official entry and exit point, so leaving meant flying back up the road I came in on, over the hill, and past the gate. On the other side, to the left of where Veritas and I had appeared, I found the lane marked by white chalk. Its open end faced the town, and I dropped to the lane at the gate and started walking.

  Thirty feet down the road, past the point we’d come in, the world blinked and I was standing in another bay of the Garage in a yellow and black painted square. I turned around to stare at the wall behind me. In yellow on white it said Warning: Exit the square immediately.

  “Ma’am? If you could move along please?” The orange-suited Navy sailor beside the square waved me on. “We know there’s nobody coming behind you, but anybody standing in that space makes us nervous.”

  I scooted out of the square. “Is it dangerous? If you exit the pocket into space that’s occupied?”