"Really?"
He nodded. "Captain Garcia told me before you called me in. I'm to receive a medal, as it Mara, posthumously, and she will get an honor guard."
"Do you think she deserves one?"
"Of course! Why wouldn't she? She was a good officer, and a good friend—and a good mother. Her daughter deserves to see her honored." He sighed. "Especially since no one else is honoring her. All anyone wishes to discuss is the alien invasion, and when the Claw is mentioned, it's said that Starling helped us stop him to prevent bad publicity."
"And you're all right with that?"
"I don't know." Baptiste slumped into the chair. "I'm just empty about that as well. I don't know what to do next. I don't think I can go out onto the street again."
"There are jobs you can do in the police without being assigned to a cruiser."
"Oh, of course. But I do not feel I will be a police officer anymore if I am at a desk." He sighed again. "Nor do I feel I will be if I am on the street. I feel a fraud."
"How are you a fraud? You're a hero, Trevor. You stopped one of the most notorious serial killers in the city's history."
"Did I? Or did I murder a hero?"
"That's ridiculous."
Baptiste stood up. "So is this session."
Feldhusen stared up at him, a hard look suddenly on her face. "This session is mandatory if you are to go back to work."
"Then perhaps I will not go back to work."
With that, Baptiste departed the office, unsure where he was going to go next.
Garcia hung up with Baptiste and then just stared at the phone. He had a pile of paperwork on his desk, and a ton of other things to deal with, but he found himself unable to even think about it. All he could focus on were Baptiste, and on Fontaine and Charlie Duffy both being dead.
The phone buzzed and Merkle's voice came over the speaker. "The commissioner on one."
"Yippee." With a desultory poke at the "1" button, Garcia picked up the phone. "Yeah?"
"What's wrong, Javier, you sound like your pet died."
Garcia felt his jaw drop. "Seriously, Enzo? This is the comment you make when I just got back from Charlie Duffy's wake and just got off the phone with Officer Baptiste to talk about his partner's funeral arrangements?"
To his credit, Dellamonica sounded contrite in response. "Sorry, Javier. Seriously, that was crappy of me to say. I'm just in a good mood—we beat off an alien invasion, the Claw's a done deal, and people are happy to live here again."
"I can hardly contain myself, I'm so excited," Garcia deadpanned.
"Oh, cut it out, Javier. This is a win for the department, and it happened on your watch. That'll mean something down the line, trust me."
Garcia didn't believe that for a second. At best it would mean something for Dellamonica, who would parlay this into a raise and a major point of whatever political campaign he decided to run in a few years—City Council, Congress, mayor, governor, whatever. But Garcia didn't suck up to Dellamonica nearly enough for this to be of any benefit to him. He undid the top button on his white dress shirt and loosened his tie.
"I want you to pin the medal on Officer Baptiste," the commissioner said. Before Garcia could object, Dellamonica added, "Don't worry, I'll still give the speech and answer press questions, but I think you should be the one to do it. Remind the people who the guy on the front lines is."
Since Garcia despised talking to the press, he had to grudgingly admit that this offer was a nice gesture on the commissioner's part, allowing him to honor Baptiste—and, by extension, Fontaine—without having to make an ass of himself by chowing down on his foot on camera.
"Oh, and I just got word from the comptroller's office—no more OT for the rest of the fiscal."
What meager goodwill Garcia had managed to dredge up toward his boss evaporated in an instant. "What?"
"Don't get your bowels in an uproar, we'll revisit at the third quarter, but for now, the money ain't there. Sorry, Javier."
"You can't—" Garcia started, but Dellamonica had already hung up.
For a second, Garcia just stared at the phone in disbelief. The city was perfectly content to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on a stupid parade that would snarl up traffic on Nantier and suck up a huge number of uniforms—all of whom had to be taken away from their usual on-shift duties, since the city was perfectly discontent to spend the money to pay his unis overtime. Sonofabitch…
A triple-tap came from the closed door to his office.
"Javier?" The muffled voice belonged to Michael Spila, one of the deputy prosecutors.
"C'mon in," Garcia said with a sigh.
Garcia saw the doorknob turn and then heard the wooden clunk of the door colliding with the doorjamb and not actually opening, at which point he closed his eyes and counted to ten in Spanish.
Spila took another shot at it and this time managed to push the door open. Waddling in, Spila reached up to put his comb-over back into place, the action of ramming the door open having disturbed it rather badly.
"You really should get that door fixed, Javier."
Garcia managed to resist giving that the response it deserved. "What is it, Michael?"
"Just wanted to give you a heads-up that I'm taking Reddington to the grand jury."
Garcia frowned. "You told me yesterday you didn't have enough."
"Yesterday, I didn't," Spila said with a wide smile showing crooked teeth. "Yesterday, I had no physical evidence and just one witness."
"So what changed this morning?"
"I still have no physical evidence, but my one witness saved dozens of lives in SimonValley last night during an alien invasion and is having a parade partly in his honor Monday morning."
Nodding, Garcia recalled that Spila's witness was the Bruiser. "I guess alien invasions make everything better."
"Hey, if it means I can get Reddington to flip on his bosses, I'm a happy camper." Reddington had remained silent on the theory that Spila didn't have enough to indict him. Spila obviously now felt differently.
"Glad somebody is. Thanks, Michael."
Spila nodded. "Close the door?"
Shaking his head, Garcia said, "Best not."
"Okay." Spila disappeared down the corridor.
Garcia let out a long breath. Yeah, alien invasions make everything better as long as you're not an actual cop in this town. Politician, costume, deputy prosecutor—everything's fine. If you're a police, well, then you're totally fucked. But hey, at least you get an honor guard at your funeral.
Merkle called out, "Captain, your mother's on three."
Closing his eyes, Garcia counted from ten to one in Spanish. Then he hit "3" on his phone and picked it back up. "Hi, mami."
About the Author
Keith R.A. DeCandido's first published fiction was a Spider-Man short story in 1994 entitled "An Evening in the Bronx with Venom," which had the Marvel Comics hero working in tandem with the NYPD. He has returned to the theme of mixing police procedure with elements of the fantastic several times, including in two Spider-Man novels (Venom's Wrath and Down These Mean Streets), other licensed universes (Supernatural: Nevermore, Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Blackout), and in his other original fiction (the high-fantasy police procedural Dragon Precinct, which has spawned a half-dozen short stories and the sequel novels Unicorn Precinct and the forthcoming Goblin Precinct)—plus, of course, in the novel you're reading.
Keith has written more than forty-five novels, plus dozens of novellas, short stories, comic books, essays, and articles. When he isn't writing, he's editing (he has ten anthologies to his credit), practicing karate (he achieved his first-degree black belt in 2009), meandering around the Internet (his web site is DeCandido.net, his blog is kradical.livejournal.com, and he is on Twitter and Facebook under the username KRADeC), and following his beloved New York Yankees. He lives in New York City with several humans and animals.
An Original Series from Crossroad Press:
One Universe
&
nbsp; Many Authors – Many Worlds
Aaron Rosenberg
David Niall Wilson
Steven Savile
Keith R. A. DeCandido
Steven Lockley
From The Birth of the Dread Remora – by Aaron Rosenberg
Chapter One
Midshipman Nathaniel Demming glanced at his pocket watch again, the luminous face easily readable through the water. T minus four to launch. No worries, old boy, he told himself. After all, we’re about to attempt the first launch of an untested ship with an untried crew and an uninformed captain, on a mission to an unexplored domain after an unexplained target.
Why fret?
“T minus four to launch,” Lizette Mills reported from the helm. Demming hid a smile. She was half a second off in her count, but what did that matter? And what would he possibly gain by pointing that out now? Far better to keep silent and rib her about it later, in the officers’ mess. Lizette was always a fun one to rib.
“Roger that,” Captain Mendez replied, sitting tall in the command chair. From his position behind her Demming could still make out the topknot of her dark blond braid beneath her cap. Not a hair out of place, as usual. “Are we secure?”
That last was directed at him, Demming realized after a heartbeat, and scanned his console, studying the readouts. “Secure, captain,” he confirmed a few seconds later. His heart was thudding so loudly it was a wonder the water was rippling all around him. “All crew in their harnesses, all ports locked down.”
“Good. Mister Dittmer?”
“All secure, Captain,” the quartermaster replied right away, his voice as lazy as always. With any other man Demming would have assumed he had taken the time to double-check while the captain was waiting for his answer first, but with Dittmer he knew that wasn’t the case. Dittmer didn’t need extra time. He already knew where every scrap of material was on this ship. The man had a memory like a clamshell, latched on tight.
“T minus three,” Lizette updated. Everyone on the foredeck tensed with anticipation. Behind him Demming heard someone, most likely one of the ensigns, gasp for breath—and start choking as water filled his lungs. Classic rookie mistake. A wave of quiet laughter filled the cabin. Demming could hardly blame the ensign, though. It was all he could do to keep his own mouth closed, nostrils clamped shut, gills narrowed. What he really wanted was to start gasping himself, but that would never do. He was a midshipman of the line, for current’s sake! He had not only his own dignity but the dignity of the entire ship and the entire Royal Navy to maintain!
Plus the others would laugh at him just as they were all laughing at the ensign now. And that was no way to begin a mission. Especially this mission.
“T minus two.”
“Throttle us up, Miss Mills,” Mendez ordered. Lizette nodded, her hand going to the smooth coral inlay of the throttle and easing it down a quarter toward the console. Beneath and all around him Demming could feel the thrum as the ship’s engines started to spin.
Soon. Very soon.
“T minus one.”
“Ready on my mark,” the captain warned. She reached for the speaking tube built into the arm of her chair, and her next words echoed faintly, as they repeated from speakers all throughout the ship. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to embark on our mission. I consider it an honor and a privilege to lead you into history. May the waves grant us success, and water save the queen.”
“Water save the queen,” Demming repeated softly, along with the other officers and, no doubt, the seamen in their compartments. And water save us, he thought. But did not say out loud.
“Mark!” Mendez hissed, and Lizette’s quick fingers tapped controls, releasing the clamps that bound them to the docks and slamming the throttle down full. With a roar and a twist the ship’s engines boomed to life, revving instantly to full speed, and with a mighty rushing sound the HMES Remora shot up from the ocean floor, her long, tapered prow pointed up at the air and at the stars beyond.
The force of their acceleration slammed Demming back in his seat, and he was grateful for the webbing that secured him there. He gripped the armrests on either side, feet planted flat on the floor, and kept his eyes squarely on the narrow windows that sliced down over the foredeck and arced along it toward its nose. For now all he could see was water, lit by the Remora’s powerful searchlights but shifting past too quickly to leave any real impression. This was the easy part, however. He had seen all of this before.
It was what came next that would be a shock.
In what seemed only moments but Demming knew had to be closer to an hour the water began to lighten. He could make out fish and reefs rushing by. They were nearing the surface. He felt his lungs constrict at the very thought of it.
The surface!
“Prepare for wave breach!” Lizette announced, her hand tightening on the throttle to one side and her fingers poised over the sonic pulse array to the other.
“All hands, hold fast!” Captain Mendez ordered through the speakers.
The water continued to brighten, forcing Demming to squint against the glare. He fought the instinct to turn away, or close his eyes. He had to watch this. After all, how many could say they had experienced true wave breach? And he wanted to remember all of this journey, every second, so that he could chronicle it later. For posterity.
Or for those who wondered what became of them.
With a surge of sound that set the hull ringing, the Remora’s prow burst upward through the waves. The light was blinding. Demming blinked, trying to clear his sight, and after a few seconds he found he could see again. It was so bright! And so empty!
His body pushed back in his chair, feeling heavy and sluggish. The Remora groaned around them. The noise had increased when they’d broken through, but the sense of momentum had dimmed rapidly. Now it felt as if they were barely moving, yet he could make out strange white shapes, filmy like jellyfish but puffed out like ink clouds, appearing in view and then vanishing below. So they must still be rising.
But for how long? Even now the waters exerted their hold, attempting to draw the ship back into the deeps.
“Sonic pulse on my mark!” Captain Mendez told Lizette. She didn’t shout—their two chairs were less than a body-length apart—but every word was crisp and clear.
“Aye aye, captain!” Lizette tensed at the ready.
“Mark!”
The pilot’s fingers jabbed down on the array, and the Remora shuddered as a rush of energy exploded behind her. Demming held his breath. All of this had worked in theory, and on the probe, but they had never had the chance to test it on a real ship, with a real crew.
This was the test.
Right now.
With them in it.
He waited, not sure what he was expecting. But after a second he realized that the Remora was still rising. If anything, her velocity had increased. It had worked!
“Again!” Mendez ordered, and Lizette complied. The ship shook again, though some of that faded as Lizette throttled down the impellers to three-quarter speed, and the Remora leaped skyward again, forced upward by the focused sonic burst it had just released behind.
And above—
Demming peered through the window. The sky was lighter and lighter in color as they rose, approaching pure white now, and through it he could just make out the twinkling of lights.
The stars.
They were close.
“How soon?” Mendez demanded. The question didn’t seem aimed at anyone in particular, so it was her first lieutenant, Daniel Holst, who answered.
“Fifty kilometers and closing, captain,” he reported. “And all systems are performing admirably.”
“Thank you, Mister Holst.” Demming could hear the smile in her voice. “Miss Mills, please continue.”
“Yes, captain.” Lizette fired off another sonic pulse, the energy wave pushing off the waves and earth below and propelling the Remora further. The pressure was immense, slamming everyone into their seats, caus
ing whines and creaks from spots along the hull and around the inner port, making it hard to breathe, hard to focus, hard to think. Demming kept his eyes trained on the stars beyond and took short, shallow breaths, letting the water filter into his gills almost of its own accord. The scientists had all agreed this pressure would let up once they breached the air. And they were so close! Almost—almost—
Wham!
The Remora lurched as if she had slammed into a strong current head-on. The ship flipped onto its side, all its momentum spent, listing and drifting with the dregs of that lost velocity. Water buffeted Demming, slapping his face and hands and chest and legs, and again he resisted the impulse to gulp for breath. Beyond the window, the glare had suddenly winked out, replaced by a darkness as deep as any abyss. There had been no lights in the cabin—none had seemed necessary—and in the sudden darkness only the telltales on various consoles could be seen. And here and there the gleam of those lights reflected in wide, terrified eyes.
And there was silence.
Demming had found the noise deafening as they’d shot through the air, but its absence was far worse. He had expected normal sounds, if slightly diminish—the roll of the waves, the rush of water through the impellers, the hum of the engines, the song of whales and chatter of dolphins and flutter of fish.
Here? Here there was nothing.
Everyone, it seemed, was holding their collective breath.
And then the sounds came all at once. But only from within the Remora herself.
Shouting. Whispering. Cursing. Whimpering. Even crying.
The ship generated its own wave of noise as crew and officers alike began to panic.
Demming fought down his own urge to do likewise. This would not do! This was a ship of the line! They had their honor to maintain!
He forced himself to calm down, to breathe slowly and evenly. He unclenched his hands where they had dug into the armrests. He uncurled his toes and set his feet flat against the floor once more. And he waited.
Case of the Claw Page 22
