Firedrake - Volume Two

by T. Mike McCurley

  “So you’re the Man,” Drake said as he looked down at the aging hero. Patriot nodded.

  “I’m him.”

  “Look a lot better than last time I saw you. I’m Drake, by the way.”

  “They didn’t tell me you were so tall,” Patriot said nonchalantly, tipping up his espresso and draining the cup. “Understand I owe you a lot.”

  “Sign an autograph for my little brother and we’ll call it even.”

  “You never said you had a brother,” Emile noted. Drake chuckled.

  “Not like we spent days shootin’ the breeze or anything,” he said. “I got you where you needed to be and then split. Oh, yeah, Hart said for me to tell you there was a reason why I came on this trip. She said to tell you that ’actions have consequences’, whatever the hell that means.”

  Groaning, Emile began banging his head against the table in a slow, deliberate rhythm. He spouted curses in guttural French between strikes of his forehead.

  “Well, that looks like a whole lot of no fun,” Drake observed, grabbing a chair from a nearby table. He spun it around so the back was up against the table at which the other two sat and straddled it. His tail, protruding from a hole in the trousers, thumped noisily on the floor. It was echoed by the butts of the heavy pistols in their leather holsters as they bounced off the back of the chair.

  “It is Hart,” Emile explained, raising his head to look at them. There were no marks on his head, but a slight indentation in the Formica of the tabletop gave mute proof of his strength. He looked at Patriot with an expression that begged forgiveness for a past wrong. “She and I had, well, we had…” he said, pausing to search for the right words.

  “Holy shit, Frenchie, you were banging her. Just admit it,” Drake teased, his body shaking as laughter swept through him. Emile looked at him with horror in his eyes.

  “I would never have put it quite so bluntly as that, but in truth, yes.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  “Yet another revelation from the past,” Patriot put in. He struggled to keep his expression neutral. “So what happened?”

  “Our affair ended badly. I walked out on her. When I saw her at the military base, it was all I could do to remain in the room with her. She has said that she would one day revenge herself upon me.” He reached out a hand and laid it on Drake’s forearm. “I believe she feels having you here will complicate my life,” he explained with a small grin.

  “It fits,” Drake said. His fangs showed again as he laughed. “I’m not exactly what you’d call polite company. Besides, it ain’t like this is the first time she’s sent me to make your life Hell. Maybe it won’t be the last, huh?”

  “Perhaps,” Emile said. A slow grin spread as his apprehension eased.

  “And, uh, you dumped her, huh? Sweet. I’ll remember that one.”

  “Please do not mention my name to her,” Emile begged, holding up his hands in supplication. “It will only make matters worse, I assure you.”

  “Did she tell you why you were here?” Patriot asked, interrupting the banter with a lack of subtlety that Drake could appreciate.

  “Said you needed muscle,” Drake said. He suddenly turned and bellowed toward the frightened employees where they cowered behind the long counter. “Hey! One of you coffee monkeys bring a pot over here! We’re thirsty!”

  As a teenaged girl jumped to comply, Drake turned back to the table and made a shrugging motion. “Yeah, I know. I’m an asshole. But then, you asked for muscle, not a diplomat.”

  “It’s possible to be both,” Patriot reminded him. Drake nodded, then grinned again.

  “I could, but like I said, I’m an asshole.”

  *****

  -February 13-

  -Brooklyn, New York, 0923 hours-

  The morning rush was long since over for Saul Rosenberg. Until noon, he was lucky if he would get a half-dozen more customers. Taking advantage of the lull in his traffic, he walked the fifty paces to the deli and ordered a sandwich. When he returned, he put his feet up on the counter and leaned back in his chair. Munching happily on his pastrami and rye, he stared again at the television, captivated by the live footage of Atlanta as they prepared for the parade. The reporter, a brunette woman with an easygoing manner, had just finished interviewing a woman who had witnessed Lady Justice’s last known battle before the anonymous assassin had struck.

  “I just hope they find whoever done it,” the elderly woman said before the network cut back to file footage.

  “Not likely they ever will,” Saul heard. Mick Ashton had returned as he walked his beat. The officer had overheard the comment.

  “No one’s gonna confess, that’s for sure,” Saul agreed. “I remember when it happened, Mick. Man, the crazies were coming out of the woodwork after that. Good guys, bad guys, it didn’t matter. All of them were looking for the killer. She meant more to them than she did to the rest of us, and that’s saying a lot. There’s a lot of bad blood out there where the boosters are concerned, but when it comes to Lady Justice, they all seemed to agree. Both sides of the game went looking for the one who did it. You old enough to remember that one in London, called himself Homicidal? Went on the New Years’ rampage in ’81,” he explained as the cop shook his head. “Even that crazy schmuck was out on the streets looking. It was pretty rough for a while.”

  “And they still got nothing.”

  “Less than nothing, but they’ll keep looking. And they’ll keep on killing. And all for Her,” he added reverently, looking down at the video screen to see an image of Lady Justice lifting a sinking boat from the Indian Sea. The reporter was droning on about the hundreds of lives saved with all the enthusiasm of a man reading statistics off the side of a toothpaste box. Saul cursed him for his lack of feeling.

  “Now you look at this,” he said suddenly, pointing to the screen, Ashton leaned in to see what the older man was indicating. The camera in Atlanta was panning across a group of men and women in matching militaristic outfits, all carrying signs with slogans denouncing geneboosters as evil, tainted, and seditious.

  “Humanity First,” the cop said sourly. “I had to work one of their big rallies last year. Holy Mary, that was a cluster. Give me the Klan any day. They’re easier to work with. Nicer, too.”

  “Can’t the police do something about this? So disrespectful,” Saul noted.

  “They get a permit, you gotta let ’em do it. So long as they keep it peaceful, they can pretty much say what they want.”

  “I hope someone teaches them a lesson in respect,” Saul said firmly. “This is a day to remember a great woman. A great American. Someone should remind them of that.” Ashton glanced over at his friend, ready with a snappy comeback that died on his lips as he saw the anger in Saul’s eyes and the single glistening tear rolling down his cheek.

  *****

  -February 13-

  -Atlanta, Georgia, 0914 hours-

  The parade was nearing its end. Already the marching bands from a dozen high schools had passed before the massive stage upon which sat almost twenty of Atlanta’s most prominent citizens. The men and women on the stage had long since tired of cheering and applauding, and were in general ready to go home. Even the prospect of sitting through the impassioned speech of the man who had once been called “America’s Hero” seemed interminable. Prominent reputations call for prominent appearances, however, and they remained in their seats, putting on a show for the people who crowded the sidewalks.

  The back of the stage was another matter. Atlanta police were teamed with private security contractors for the event, and nearly a dozen of them wandered around behind the stage, checking the identities of any and all who dared approach within twenty feet. Crude jokes and hidden cigarettes were the order of the day on the tarmac behind the enormous façade of wood and steel. Patriot, Emile, and Drake walked casually up to the security checkpoint. Patriot had taken the time to change into the suit he had worn for years, though it was not as form-fitting as once it had been. Drake had
laughed aloud at the sight.

  “I can’t believe you people actually wore this crap,” he had said, hooking a claw into the material of the suit and stretching it out before letting it snap back into place. “Who told you that you guys needed some kind of goofy uniform, anyway?”

  “Believe it or not, this uniform was created by Ladybird Johnson back in ’67,” Patriot said proudly. “Well, the design was. This isn’t exactly the first one they made. We kept tearing them up, you see.”

  The uniform was a deep Prussian blue in color, with an American flag emblazoned across the chest. It had form-fit boots and gloves of matte-black hue. The mask enclosed most of his head, allowing only his eyes, mouth and nose to be exposed. A smaller version of the flag emblem was on the forehead. A three-inch wide black leather belt encircled his waist, and a few small pouches occupied space on it.

  As they approached the security checkpoint, two police officers detached themselves from the group of their brethren and moved to assist the security officer who was angling to intercept the approaching trio. Their hands were on their weapons as they witnessed the walking dragon with the pair of enormous holstered pistols.

  “ID, please,” the guard asked respectfully. His jaw worked and he swallowed as he tried not to look like a school boy in the presence of Patriot. He scanned the Event Staff ID cards presented by Patriot and Emile. His eyes widened slightly as he took in the sight of the reptilian booster, but he maintained his calm in order to complete the task at hand.

  “Francis Drake, Department of Justice, Office of Metahuman Affairs,” Drake declared, handing over the small wallet containing his credentials and DOJ shield.

  “Francis Drake?” one of the cops asked, raising an eyebrow. “Like the explorer?”

  “Yeah. My old man had a sick sense of humor,” Drake chuckled in reply, taking back his wallet and dropping it into a pocket.

  As the trio passed the checkpoint, they heard the officer say to his partner, “Looks to me like God had the sense of humor.”

  Before Patriot could react, Drake had wheeled on the officer. Towering a foot above the norm, he looked down on him through slit pupils of deepest black. As Drake spoke, the officer could feel an intense heat from the booster’s mouth, combined with a sulfurous scent that made his eyes water.

  “That’s real cute, slick. You write that yourself? No? Well, listen up, ’cause I ain’t the type to explain things more than once. I didn’t ask to be born a dragon any more than you asked to be born a pathetic sack of mewling pink meat. You got a job to do, and I respect you for that, but I hear one more racist comment from you and I’ll have you in your Chief’s office on charges of obstructing a Federal Officer. Once he finishes chewing your ass, I’ll start. And when I chew on someone,” he finished, displaying his shining teeth in a ghastly display, “I actually chew.”

  That said, he released his grip on the officer, nearly throwing the man aside. He turned to rejoin the other two boosters and together they walked away. Emile looked up at the angry Fed.

  “I think you handled that very well, my friend,” he said.

  “Punk-ass had it coming.”

  “No I am serious. You did a good job. Most of us never have to deal with that much outright prejudice. It is more subtle for us.”

  Drake snorted in derision, smoke jetting from his nostrils in a visual display of his barely-controlled rage. “You think that was prejudice, slick? Try being born looking like this when your old man’s a Baptist preacher in Kansas. He thought I was some kind of omen. A sign that my mother was possessed by demons.”

  “And how did he come to terms with it?” asked Emile, interested in the sudden turn of the conversation.

  “Mom put six bullets in his chest one afternoon,” Drake said venomously. “Interview’s over,” he added, glaring at the smaller booster as they mounted the steps to the stage.

  *****

  -February 13-

  -Brooklyn, New York 1030 hours-

  “What the hell is that?” Mick Ashton asked as the camera panned across the stage. The seated figure of Patriot was instantly recognizable, as it would be for practically any American who had seen any booster-related journalism for years. It was the hulking form behind him that drew the cop’s attention. He pointed toward the screen, the tip of his finger enough to cover almost a quarter of the viewing area on Saul’s tiny WatchMan. He indicated the nightmarish figure with wings that stood behind Patriot, powerful arms crossed over an armored chest.

  “I don’t know,” Saul admitted, eyes wide over the rim of his coffee cup. He had never seen the likes of this particular genebooster, but knew from seeing the photographs in the newspapers every day that quite a few boosters displayed abnormal characteristics that set them apart, even from their own kind.

  Ashton glanced up and down the street one more time, assuring himself that nothing untoward was occurring, and then leaned over the counter again to watch the scene unfold in Atlanta. He could have gone to one of the local bars and watched it all on a large-screen television, but somehow being here with Saul felt right.

  On the screen, the Mayor of Atlanta had finished his opening statements following the parade. He announced to the crowd that it was time for the guest speaker, and the streets came alive with applause.

  Standing from his chair, the flag-wearing hero walked slowly to the podium. He smiled and raised his arms above his head, calming the deafening shouts from the assembled crowd. The television image zoomed in to encompass his face as he prepared to speak. Saul and Ashton both found themselves tensing and leaning forward, drawn in to the screen as the speech began until it was almost as if they were standing beside the legendary booster.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Patriot began, coughing once to clear his throat. “To begin, I would like to say hello to Monster. I know you’re watching, and I just want you to know what a pleasure it is to work with your brother.” He waved at the camera. Behind him, the enormous scaled booster did the same. Saul looked at Mick and shrugged, unsure what they were seeing.

  “I would like to begin the day with a couple of announcements,” Patriot continued, “and then I will tell you about Lady Justice. For, although I chose this day to make these announcements, I want you all to remember why we are here.”

  He paused to pick up a glass of water from the podium and take a small sip. Though it was barely perceptible, the cameras caught the tremor in his hands as he lowered the glass.

  “First off, I would like to say this much. It has been a pleasure serving you all through the years. I have grown to truly love this country in a way I once thought was only the stuff of fiction. My time, though, is through. The younger generation has stepped forward to take the place of those of us who have been on the fields of battle for too long. So, with that said, I am announcing my retirement, effective immediately, from public service.”

  The babbling voices of television newscasters expressing their disbelief and amazement at the declaration was heard for a few seconds as Patriot waited for the expected -- and received -- chorus of dismayed voices within the crowd to subside. Saul grimaced and tried in vain to focus his attention on the events in Atlanta, as though he could push the squeaking voices of the broadcasters aside by force of his will alone.

  “Wait, wait, let me continue,” Patriot urged, raising a hand again. “It has recently come to my attention that certain elements have become privy to my identity and attempts have been made to contact me in reference to disclosing it to the general public. Apparently, there are those who would profit from such knowledge. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to remove that advantage forthwith.”

  With no attempt at dramatic gestures or flourishes, Patriot simply reached up and peeled the mask from his face. The cameras zoomed in to display the features of a man who looked to have been through Hell and returned. The years had clearly not been kind to him, as evidenced by the thick lines etched on his forehead and the dark circles ingrained beneath his eyes. As if by s
ome miracle, the clouds overhead cleared away and a brilliant ray of sun splashed down onto the stage, illuminating him in golden radiance.

  “My name,” he continued in a drawn voice, “is Angelo Salvatore.”

  He paused to let the words sink in and give the broadcasters time to do their jobs, waving down shouts from the crowd. After a moment, he continued.

  “Thank you for your patience and understanding,” he said, lowering his voice slightly. “As I said before, I had to get these things out of the way, for reasons that are both personal and public. Now, I ask that you set aside what you have heard so far, in favor of more important things. We have come here today to honor the memory of Alicia Mathers. I had some notes prepared, and they were nicely indexed, with all the right words and the little things you are supposed to say on occasions like this. I threw them all away, because it occurred to me that nothing is truly the right thing to say. I stand before you today to remember a woman. Yes, She was a genebooster. Yes, She was a hero, not only to you, but to me. But first and foremost, Lady Justice was a woman. A real, live, breathing, walking, talking woman. She had the same…”

  He paused and waved his hand in small circular motions as he pursed his lips, seeking the correct words to fit.

  “She had the same love, the same desire to protect life, as any other woman. She had the same needs, the same attitudes, as what some people crudely refer to as a ’normal’ woman. She wanted a life out of the spotlight, where She could raise a family, watch them grow, see them become important people one day.”

  Pausing again, he took another sip from the glass and rubbed wearily at his forehead before looking up once more.

  “We took that from Her,” he announced flatly. “You and I together, we robbed Her of that life. We put Her on a pedestal with no chance of escape and no way out of the life we forced on Her. Our needs were more important to Her than Her own, you see, and when we all needed Her, She was there. She couldn’t not be. Stop and think about it, folks. She Emerged at twelve years old. It took Her a year before enough other geneboosters began to come out that we stopped fearing Her. She walked out determined to show us that She was a hero. Something in Her upbringing told Her to put others before Herself, and by God She did. She fought night and day to pass those values on to others, including myself. Never once did She stop to reach out and grab hold of the life that should have been Hers. We kept Her too busy making sure we all had what we wanted, what we needed.”