Firedrake - Volume 1

by T. Mike McCurley

  Hart reached beneath the table and picked up a brown paper bag that was rolled shut at the top. Setting it on the table, she slid it down the length of the wood to Drake.

  “It’s yours,” she told him, crossing her arms on her chest.

  “Awww. And it ain’t even my birthday,” he said. He opened it and grinned widely on seeing the contents. His pistols, spare ammunition and badge all lay inside.

  “Gear up,” Hart told him. “You’re back on the job.”

  “That’s cool. I’ve got a prisoner to see, anyway,” he told her as he loaded the pistols with the magazines of heavy rounds from the bag. He filled the first with a magazine of blue-tipped ammunition, then slipped it into place beneath his right arm. The second mag held rounds with red tips, and he loaded it into the second pistol.

  “She’s downstairs, in the lowest level,” Hart told him. “There’s a kind of brig set up down there, so we figured that would be the best place for her.”

  “I presume I don’t need them any more?” Drake asked, jerking his left thumb at the Marine escorts behind him as he used his right to holster his weapon.

  “Marines, you are dismissed,” Hart said simply, not bothering to address a response to Drake. For his own part, Drake turned and waved merrily to the departing troops.

  “She’s awake, by the way,” Hart said as she gathered the last of her presentation materials and returned them to the massive briefcase beside her chair. “Came around not long after getting down there. The Marines restrained her.”

  “Hell, I put cuffs on her,” Drake said.

  “Yes, you did. However, once she awakened, she was able to cause some significant damage to her surroundings. The Marines on guard said she only spoke to them and things started to happen.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “It started with an electrical malfunction that caused the lights to fail, and progressed through random energy blasts to one Marine attacking the others with a rifle butt. He was subdued and has been relieved of duty.”

  “And how did they deal with her after that?” Drake asked, leaning against the broken table.

  “Duct-taped her mouth shut.”

  “Oh, I have got to see this one up close,” Drake said with a laugh. He clipped his badge back onto his belt and turned to leave.

  “Don’t take any chances down there, Agent Drake,” Hart cautioned him. “She’s an unknown element.”

  “Yeah? Well, she knew I was the one who took out Aquatica,” he replied, setting his jaw and not looking back. “So it looks like she’s gonna get to be a known element pretty damned fast.”

  Chapter Ten

  The door to the tiny brig slammed open with authority as Drake entered, rebounding from the wall with an echoing sound of wood on stone. He stood framed in the open portal as he examined the entry hall. It was dimly lit, with flaking grey-green paint and a pervasive stench of fear and sweat. The ceiling was high enough that Drake could comfortably walk upright, but the hall itself was so narrow that his wingtips brushed the walls. It was flanked on the left by a row of cell doors, and on the right by a pair of offices and a single bathroom.

  The four Marines assigned to the jail jerked their weapons up to cover the new arrival. Drake waved them off, displaying his credentials and introducing himself. A Marine detached himself from the group and stepped forward. His sleeve bore the stripes of a Sergeant.

  “Where’s my prisoner?” Drake asked.

  “She’s in the back, sir. Last cell.”

  “Still gagged?”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but you bet your ass she is,” the Sergeant replied. His lip curled as though he were preparing to spit. “Bitch put one of mine in Sickbay. She’s damned lucky she isn’t coughing up one of her lungs back there.”

  “Yeah?” Drake asked. He snorted in amusement. “Wouldn’t bother me much if she was. Still, I’ve got some questions for her. Probably better that she ain’t.”

  The Sergeant scanned Drake from head to toe. “Sir, I’d really rather you didn’t go back there,” he said politely. “Whatever she did had Murphy taking us all on in here. We’re all still a little worn out and I don’t think any of us are ready to do the same with you.”

  “Not going to be a problem,” Drake assured the man. He upholstered his pistols and laid them on the desk in the first office. The Marines had a cooler box on that same desk and Drake extracted a bottle of water from the melting ice inside it. He slid the bottle into a thigh pocket of his trousers. “I owe somebody a buck,” he said.

  “Sir, that woman - “ the Sergeant began, but another of the Marines cut him off.

  “She’s a witch!” the man snarled. There was a fresh bandage on his forehead; white gauze peeking out from beneath the brim of his helmet.

  “Hightower!” snapped the Sergeant, turning an angry glare on his trooper.

  “She is, Sarge! You heard her. She cast a spell on Murphy!”

  “Just chill, man,” said one of the other Marines as he reached out to calm Hightower, who shook off the cautionary hand and continued.

  “I know what I heard.”

  Drake stepped clear of the office, leaned against the wall, and folded his arms across his chest. “Tell me,” he said.

  “Everything was good down here. We had her secured, got her into the restraints, the whole nine,” Hightower said. He rested a shaking hand on the receiver of his rifle, letting the weapon hang on its patrol sling. “Next thing, she’s all chanting and shit and the lights went out. Murphy went back to check on her and she said something else to him. A few seconds later, Murphy comes back down the hall and tags me in the head with the butt of his ‘sixteen.”

  The Sergeant began to make some comment but Drake interrupted him. “It’s probably some kind of telepathy,” he explained. “Mind control. She just used the chanting to get your attention. As far as the lights go, that’s a bargain-basement trick for anyone with a little electrical ability.”

  “I’m telling you, sir -”

  “Not saying I don’t believe you, slick,” Drake said, raising a hand to quiet the man‘s protests. “You saw what you saw. No questions there. I’ve just been around too many of these monkeys who want to make everyone believe they’re more powerful than they really are. They use their abilities to twist your head.”

  Without waiting for further discussion, Drake stepped forward, forcing the Marines to press themselves against the wall to avoid his bulk. They shrank away from any contact with his wings, relaxing only after he had full passed their positions.

  The hallway grew dimmer the closer Drake got to the cell, and he glanced up to see that the lights had burned out in their sockets, apparently from the electrical surge the woman had caused. He passed by a spatter of blood on the wall that smelled fresh. He closed in on the final cell, and noted with little surprise that there was more blood there. The fight with Murphy had been a good one.

  The cell itself was small and dank, and its sole occupant was seated on a cot that was little more than a plank of metal suspended from the wall by a pair of chains. The woman still wore her black leather ensemble, but it showed signs of abuse. Drake could make out the print of a rifle butt under her left breast and numerous boot marks in various locations. She was not clean of blood either; trickles had dried across her lips and beneath her nose. Her hands were encased behind her in a ‘V’-shaped set of durite restraints that completely enclosed her arms up to the elbows, and the restraints were chained to a heavy metal ring on the wall to hold her in place. A blinking LED on the left wrist indicated that an explosive charge was wired into the device. There was a massive dark pattern of a bruise that had begun to purple along the line of her left lower jaw, and Drake recognized the marks his own fist had left. Her hair shifted as she turned her head to get a closer look at him. A strip of silver duct tape covered her mouth, but it was the angry eyes above it that drew Drake’s attention. Where they showed through the locks of her hair, there was only rage to be seen within the
m.

  “Yum, yum, yum,” Drake said, leaning against the doorframe and leering down at her. “Leather and durite. Looks like a genebooster S&M party in here.”

  The bound woman muttered something from behind the duct tape. Though the words were incomprehensible, the flashing in her eyes gave mute testimony to their meaning. Drake chucked softly before stepping inside the cell. He took the bottle of water from his pocket and showed it to the woman.

  “I’m gonna take this tape off your mouth, and then you can have a drink. After that, we can talk a little bit. Let me make sure you’re clear on one thing, though: You try to do to me what you did to those Marines, and they’ll be taking you out of here in three separate bags. Nod if you understand.”

  The muscles in her jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed, but she nodded her head. Drake set the water on the floor. He reached out with a claw and hooked the edge of the tape. With a muttered apology for the pain to come, he ripped the strip free in a sudden pull. Her agonized scream echoed from the walls of the tiny cell. Once she had a moment to recover, Drake unscrewed the cap from the bottle of water and held it up to her lips, letting her suck greedily at the cold liquid. She finished most of the bottle before pulling away.

  “What do you want?” she croaked.

  “Some answers.”

  The woman snorted in derision, then hawked and spat. A thick gobbet of blood-specked phlegm struck Drake in the upper chest and slid down his armored torso with an oily feeling.

  “There’s your answer, freak,” she said.

  “Oh, now see? I was being all nice and everything, and you had to go and do that,” Drake said, shrugging his shoulders. He leaned in close, letting the chemical stench of his breath bring tears to her eyes. He could see the terrifying lengths of his teeth reflected in those watering orbs. Without warning, he lashed out with a hand, claws carving a series of rents through the stone wall with a shrieking sound. When he spoke, his voice was a menacing whisper. “Guess we’re gonna have to do things the old-fashioned way.”

  “I want my lawyer!” the woman shouted. She leaned back, away from Drake, letting her weight rest on the durite restraints behind her. Drake recognized the fear for what it was and knew he had pushed the act a bit far. He lowered his voice and put on his best friendly manner.

  “Let‘s start by getting acquainted. What do you say?” Drake asked, ignoring her demand for representation. “I’m Francis Drake, Metahuman Response. You are?”

  “I’m the one who’s going to kill you,” the woman said as her lips curled back in a hate-filled sneer.

  “Yeah, yeah. You and about two hundred other little monkeys through the years. Didn’t stop you from almost pissing yourself a second ago. Now what’s your name?”

  “Manslaughter,” she said with obvious pride.

  Drake made a soft snorting sound, then another and another. He turned away and lifted a hand to cover his snout as the sounds continued. After a few seconds, his upper body rocked as the urge to laugh overpowered his restraint. He fought against it for a moment, then composed himself and forced a straight face when he looked back at her.

  “No, come on, really,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  The woman surged to her feet in a vain attempt to bring herself to his eye level. She wound up looking at the spittle that still clung to his pectorals. Jerking her head up, she glared balefully into the reptilian face that looked down at her. “The name is Manslaughter, lizard-boy, and you’d better remember it!”

  “Okay,” Drake said, reaching out to pat her on the head like a small child. “You sit down now, Manslaughter,” he told her, rolling his eyes as he spoke the name.

  “You can’t keep me here,” she said, pulling against the chains that held her to the wall. “I’m gonna get out, and I’m gonna track you down. When I do, you’ll wish you’d never met me.”

  “Lady, I’m already there,” Drake said, pushing her back down onto the cot. “How come you want me dead so bad? What did I ever do to you, anyway? Apart from that, I mean,” he added, jerking his chin toward the contusion on her jaw line.

  “You know what you did, asshole. You took down Aquatica.”

  “That’s it? All this for a walking squirt gun?”

  Once more Manslaughter leaped to her feet, raging against the chains that held her only inches from her tormentor. Saliva flew from her lips as she shouted at him.

  “You son of a bitch! I’ll kill you! Let me out of these cuffs and I’ll kick your ass!”

  “That’s not exactly an incentive to release you, you know,” he said, pushing her onto the cot again. He noted that quite a bit more force was necessary this time. “Look, I didn’t come here to start a fight. We had enough of that up in the sky. You help me, maybe I can see to it that she gets moved someplace with a pool. How’s that sound?”

  Her jaw muscles continued to work as though she were trying to chew on something. Drake looked down at her and saw just how pitiful a sight she really was. The restraints had to be painful, holding her arms behind her as they did, and she looked as though she could use some medical attention, both from his own fight and that which she had undergone with the Marines. He could control her, he knew, and it was after all only a short trip to the infirmary. There was nothing a little girl like this could do against his own immense strength. Even if she somehow got away, he could always take her down with his breath weapon.

  That last thought caused a sudden image of Broadsword on his knees moaning in pain to flash into Drake’s mind and he shook off the feelings that had assailed him. He took a deep breath and his eyes widened as he realized he had stepped closer to the woman while he was lost in thought.

  “You‘re good,” he said with more than a touch of genuine admiration. “I’ve had folks in my head before, though. You won’t get me like that.”

  “I almost did,” Manslaughter gloated. “And I wasn’t even trying.”

  “Telepathy ain’t new to me, kid. I’ve worked with some of the best.”

  “I’m no telepath,” she shot back. “I have power you cannot imagine.”

  “Yeah? Didn’t seem to help you open the cell door. Hell, you could barely control one Marine,” Drake said, laughing aloud. “What were you gonna do? Take me over and use me to get you out of here? Let’s say that worked and we didn’t get dead in the process. Then what?”

  “Then you take me to see Aquatica.”

  “That simple, huh? That’s all you want?”

  “That and to see you dead,” she said.

  “Well, that part ain’t happening, but I might be able to arrange the first. My earlier offer stands. You help me and I’ll help you.”

  Manslaughter looked up, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you answer all my questions, truthfully, and I’ll take you to Aquatica. You screw me over, though, and I’ll have her dropped in the bottom of a salt mine. Hear it gets pretty dry there.”

  “You can do it? Get me in to see her, I mean?”

  “I can,” he said flatly, surprised at the pleading tone in her voice. Manslaughter looked at the floor for a moment before returning her gaze to him. She bit her lip before responding.

  “Okay. Let’s deal.”

  *****

  Drake had an odd look in his eyes when he returned to the observation room. Through the windows he could see Annihilator and Emile, now flanking the door to the room in which Patriot lay. There were still a number of technicians in the room with the fallen hero, bustling about and each vying for space near the still form. Everybody seemed to be entering data into a variety of hand-held computers, and the displays that lined the observation room echoed their efforts with lines of scrolling text and images. Drake had little interest in the contents of those displays. He could not understand the complexities of the science, and he made no pretense otherwise. Instead, he marched to where the window had been before Annihilator had flown through it to save Hart. It was covered with a thick sheet of plastic film, t
aped down as a stopgap measure before the replacement window could be fitted. Drake stuck a claw under the edge and peeled it back from the hole.

  “Yo, Emile!” he shouted through the gap. All eyes in the operating theater snapped up to see who had interrupted their work before returning to the tasks at hand. Emile smiled when he saw the long emerald snout poking through the hole. He waved.

  “Come up here a minute, would you? I got a couple of questions.”

  Emile nodded and stepped back through the door. A few moments later, he emerged from the stairs and Drake beckoned him to follow. They passed through the observation room and into a hallway lined with small offices. Choosing one at random, Drake entered. He closed the door behind Emile and gestured the man to a seat behind the matte-gray desk. He spun one of the visitor chairs around, sitting in it and allowing his tail to fall to the floor.

  “How have you been?” Emile began. “I understand that you and monsieur Calder had a bit of an altercation?”

  “I’m fine,” Drake assured him. “I took a beating, yeah, but it’s no big thing. How’s the Man?”

  “Things progress as they have,” Emile said with a touch of sorrow in his voice. “This Doctor Marks - they call him the Splicer, I think? He is working on the problem from a new angle, for which I have been told I have you to thank.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Drake said, waving off the sentiment with one enormous paw. “It was just an accident.”

  “Be that as it may, Doctor Marks has nothing but praise for you.”

  “Yeah? He’s a good kid. Look, I wanted to talk to you about something. You’ve been around the booster game from the early days. I figure you’ve seen the best and the worst there are, what with having worked alongside Patriot and Lady Justice.”

  Emile inclined his head to acknowledge the statement.

  “You ever hear of a booster calls himself Karma?” Drake asked. Emile sat back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. A smile began to spread across his face.

  “Now there is a name I have not heard for some years,” he said softly.