by Victor Koman
It being the first proffer of money he had received all morning, the young man swapped a pamphlet for the dollar. It stuck to the old man’s fingers for a second. The other gingerly slid it into his pocket, then wiped his hand against his pants before passing his propaganda to the bum. He eyed the wad of money as it disappeared back into the stained tweed jacket.
“Thankee, boy,” the geezer said, then stopped to gaze at the cover. It read
The Banker’s Conspiracy to Loot America!How Easy Credit Enslaves Us All…And What YOU Can Do To Fight Back!
“Banksters!” he cried out. “Banksters stole my job!”
The young man feigned sudden interest. “Did they? Why, they stole mine, too, sir.” His eyes glanced unconsciously at the man’s money pocket. “Others like us have banded together to battle them. To restore our country’s former glory.”
The derelict turned the pamphlet over to read the address on the back. “The Order of the Lance and Falcon,” he muttered. “They accept donations?”
“Always,” the young man quickly offered.
“They need people?”
“Always,” he said again, a little warily.
“To hand out this stuff?”
“There is all manner of work to be done.”
“Okay,” the old man said. “Thankee.” He started to wheel his squeaky shopping cart away.
A moment of quick thought and the young man swallowed his initial disgust. “Wait, sir. Perhaps you’d like to hear more about us?”
•
Hundreds of miles north, Detective R. J. Fleming stood impatiently in front of the news cameras.
“We don’t know. The EPA is running a check on the substance.” He turned away from one reporter to face the question of another. They clustered about him in front of the police line cordoning off the abandoned diner.
“What about the second man?”
“He’s resting comf-”
An officer shouted to the detective. Fleming turned and strode over to the paramedic van. A line of police kept the reporters behind the barriers.
“Hey! Come back! What’s happening to him?”
Fleming stood beside the horrified paramedics. “Didn’t I tell you to cut off his arm?” he shouted.
The construction worker jerked about in agony as he watched his arm liquefy into a silvery, mercurial rivulet running down the brace on which it had been elevated. Then the brace collapsed as if eaten away by acid. There were no fumes, though, just the surrealistic appearance of metal melting in the warm California sun. The liquid splashed against his torso and ran over his waist and leg. They were eaten away layer by layer, exposing flesh, muscle, and finally bone. The man screamed until his chest cavity opened up under the relentless assault. A rattling hiss of air escaped from the hole, then silence, followed by the sloshing sound of his body dropping into the pool of death.
The paramedics stepped back from the dying man, staring in gape-mouthed horror at the scene. The glistening puddle spread rapidly across the floor of the van, eating into the metal with ease.
“Get out of there!” Fleming cried at the driver. “Everybody get back!”
The hazardous material team rushed to the van in their white, baggy outfits. One of them dumped a sack full of acid-neutralizing super-absorbent granules on the dissolving body. The pile disappeared almost instantly.
“All right!” the detective shouted. “Now we have two danger zones!” He turned to the paramedics. “Get your clothes off and throw them into the van. We’ve got to quarantine the block.” He looked at the HazMat team. “The whole block, right?”
One of them nodded, then the other said through the muffling barrier of her breathing mask, “We’d better have Water and Power shut down the pipes and the sewers to isolate it completely.”
Fleming waved his arms at the line of police. “Back! Everybody back!”
That was when the van crumpled in on itself, disappearing into the ever-widening lake of reflective, mercurial fluid.
Chapter Four
Lunch at Mach 3
“Where’s Cap?” the old man in greasy overalls shouted. He dressed like any other aircraft mechanic except for the stainless-steel autopistol tied to his leg in a fancifully tooled and equally greasy holster.
“Flash tryin’ to find him!” Rock rushed past him to the jet, followed by Leila. Both wore black flight suits made of a thick material possessing such a matte finish that no light reflected from any surface. The outfit made Leila look sleek and pantherish. It made Rock look like a great Russian bear. A bear toting an immense aluminum equipment case, which he stashed in a compartment on the left wing.
Both Rock and Leila wore black holsters made of the same fabric as their flight suits. Both carried pistols similar to the one toted by the mechanic. The ones they carried, though, were black and nearly as unreflective as the rest of their accouterments. Below the holsters, thigh pockets bulged in two strips, outlining the replacement cartridge magazines they carried.
“Is she ready, Jack?” Leila shouted as she followed Rock across the tarmac.
“Full tanks and preheated,” Jack replied. He gazed past them at the jet, once more admiring its sleek, unrefulgent ebon beauty.
It was small, as small as it could be and still have an adequate range. Conforming to the latest stealth technology developed at the Anger Institute, its fuselage, wings, and low-profile V-shaped stabilators consisted of a series of gentle curves none of which reflected enough radar to be visible even on phased-array or lookdown radar systems. And the radar-absorbing coating took care of the rest.
Its bantamweight but powerful engines, constructed of lithium-titanium alloy, gave off little enough waste heat when operating- the air ducts mixed and cooled the remainder before the exhaust escaped from the low-profile vents. Except for the engines, the airframe, and a few enhancements available in no other plane, everything else was state-of-the-art but off-the-shelf, too, which kept the airplane affordable. And that enabled an old aircraft and powerplant mechanic such as Jack to maintain Captain Anger’s fleet without needing the farrago of doctorates everyone else around the Institute possessed.
Jack watched with pleasure as Leila ignited the engines. They whined, but much less loudly than those of a military or corporate jet. She turned it, taxied it toward the runway.
“I still say it turns out to be big nothin’,” Rock muttered, tapping their flight plan into the Global Positioning Satellite computer.
“What?” Leila said over her shoulder.
Rock plugged the combination earphone/microphone into his right ear and donned the obsidian-colored helmet, leaving the oxygen mask dangling. “I said that this is probably some acid spill out of which idiot cop exaggerated all hell.”
“How about it, Flash?” Leila said.
“Doubtful,” Flash’s calm voice said clearly over the headset. “While you two were heading for the airfield, I picked up a TV remote off satellite that shows a paramedic van melting into nothing. Find me an acid that can do that.”
•
The dark jet rolled off the runway at one hundred knots and rose swiftly into the afternoon sky, a black arrowhead rapidly vanishing into the hazy air.
Crossing the shoreline just southeast of Point Mugu, Weir eased power upward and put the nimble plane into an accelerating climb that slammed them both against their seats. As they passed through 10,000 feet, she stopped glancing at the airspeed indicator and shifted her attention to the Mach meter. At 15,000 feet, they had achieved Mach.8. Rock, in the rear seat, had achieved a nearly fluorescent green shade of skin.
“You fly like I drive,” he said, slipping on his oxygen mask.
“And you,” Leila muttered, “have no adventure in your soul.” Passing the 35,000 foot mark, she threw more power to the engines and executed a climbing barrel roll. The view outside the cockpit whirled crazily around; the brown haze that covered the entire Los Angeles basin made a 360° loop around them and stopped where it had begun-to their lef
t. To their right and ahead below them spread the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean; ahead and above, the darkening azure sky.
“Flight Level Four-Twenty,” she announced as she leveled off at 42,000 feet. She glanced down to make certain that they were past the Channel Islands, her last checkpoint before breaking the sound barrier. “Hang on for Mach One.”
The aircraft trembled for an instant, then stabilized. “Mach One,” she said, easing the throttles forward.
Rock, his gaze never leaving the collision avoidance radar, said, “TCAS shows us clear.”
“Mach Two coming up.”
“Take it up to Mach two point nine,” Flash’s digital-crisp voice said in their ears.
“Hey”-Leila’s voice was sharp-“keep your opinions to yourself. I’m going up to Mach Three.”
“I’ll barely have time to eat lunch,” Rock protested as he flipped up his helmet visor and reached into a cargo pocket for a sandwich from the AI cafeteria.
“Live off your stored fat,” she snapped back happily. “Flash- have you found the good Captain yet?”
“His transponder is still off, and he isn’t acknowledging messages on his wristcomm.”
•
“Fork it over, geek!”
The old man looked confused. He stopped in the middle of the alley and looked up at his younger companion. “A donation?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” The young man in the tan slacks grabbed the bum by his worn tweed lapels. “I’ve been listening to you rant about the world for half an hour and I’m sick of your voice and your stinking breath.”
His victim faltered. “I thought we was friends. I bought yer pamphlet. I paid fer coffee. I want to help you people.”
“We don’t need trash like you. But we can use this!” The man’s hand slipped into the gritty depths of the tweed jacket pocket. It came out with a roll of singles. “Thanks for your generosity.”
The old man’s voice hardened, deepened, grew strangely forceful. “That’s no way to treat a poor old man.”
“Poor old men don’t carry wads like this.”
The thief stared at the old man. Something had changed about him. Something that made a tremor of fear begin to grow.
“I’m looking for your leader. For Morrison,” the twisted, filthy old man said in a cold, even tone.
“He doesn’t talk to decrepit-”
Faster than the young man could follow, a gnarled hand gripped his. The tramp seemed to tower over him now, as if he had gained several inches in height. His eyes blazed with a fire that had not been there before. His gaze pierced the other man with an intensity that glared into his soul.
“Tell your exalted leader Erik Morrison that I know what he stole from the Seal Beach weapons bunker. Tell him he’ll never have a chance to use it.” The derelict’s grip tightened.
“Who-who are you?” The young man dropped the wad of crumpled dollars and slid backward, catching himself on one knee.
“Tell Morrison that when he finds out who I am”-his fingers ground the pamphleteer’s knuckles together-“it will be too late for him.”
The spotted old hand released its grip. “Keep the change,” the mysterious stranger said, leaving the money behind and turning away. He walked straight now, his strides long and purposeful.
Regaining his shopping cart, he guided it a few yards down the street until he spied another homeless one. Wheeling up to the woman, who could not have been more than forty but looked ancient because of her matted hair, sun-damaged skin, and edentulous mouth, he spoke to her for a moment, then left the cart with her. She stared gratefully at his receding figure, then began to pick through the gift of recyclable goods. There had to be at least ten dollars worth of aluminum and plastic. Then she discovered a roll of twenties stuffed in a dirty Styro cup. Her toothless face smiled in amazement at the stranger, but he had already vanished into the crowd.
Walking down the busy sidewalks of San Francisco’s business district, the bulbous-nosed man reached into another pocket of his tweed jacket and withdrew something that looked like a thick wristwatch. Grimy fingers punched at the keys; his eyes- sharp-gazed, now-read the messages stored in the wristcomm’s memory. His deeply furrowed brow wrinkled even more. He pulled a tiny, tan-plastic plug out of his pocket, wiped the lint and tobacco flakes off of it, and inserted it in his ear.
“Voice response,” he said in a clear, strong tone. “Flash.”
“Flash here,” a voice said equally clearly over the earpiece. “What are you doing”-he paused to check the wristcomm’s location-“in San Francisco?”
“Looking for alumni. What have Rock and Lei found?” “Cap-hit the road running. You’re an hour’s drive from Hell.”
Chapter Five
The Mirror Pool
“Who are you two, the SWAT team?”
Detective Fleming eyed the odd pair with a weary impatience. Both the short, stout male and the willowy female wore black jump suits. And both wore damnably huge autopistols at their side.
“We are from Anger Institute in L.A.,” Rock said, placing the large silver equipment box on the pavement. “We’re here to help.”
“Anger Institute,” Fleming repeated. “We don’t need therapists, we need-”
“We’re scientists,” Leila interjected.
Fleming shook his head. “Not toting those cannons, you’re n-”
A scream pierced the sky. Fleming turned to see the male paramedic shriek in horror, watching as his female companion collapsed in on herself, flesh, bone, and organs eaten up in seconds by the glistening nightmare. Then the screaming man looked at his own chest, watched it cave in, seeing ribs, lungs, even his heart melt away like a wax figure in a blast furnace.
Several of the reporters fainted dead away. Their cameramen- distanced from the terror by watching it through viewfinders- held steady, broadcasting the sickening deaths to millions of TV sets.
Rock opened the case and withdrew a pair of minicam headsets. He slipped his on and inserted the earplug, handing the other set to Leila. The headsets transmitted and received audio and video via their wrist communicators.
“Here’s our own news report, Flash.” Rock slammed the case lid shut and slid the whole thing toward the yellow police line. “People are melting like wicked witch out here.”
Four hundred miles away, Flash observed the two slightly differing perspectives on separate monitors. On Rock’s screen blazed the image of a pair of paramedics’ jump suits rapidly disappearing into a small silvery puddle. On Leila’s monitor, a fifty-yard-wide, roughly oblong lake reflected the buildings around it as accurately as a mirror. She nearly grew disoriented watching it. The diner had completely disappeared, one edge of the lake cutting into the next building. Its foundation undercut by the strange matter, a portion of it collapsed into the pool and sank. Now, beams and broken sections of roof and wall hung precariously over the ever-widening perimeter of destruction.
Rock stepped over the police line. The confident professionalism in his demeanor convinced Fleming not to interfere. The detective merely watched with quiet apprehension.
Leila withdrew two containers from the case-a stainless-steel vacuum bottle and an acid-proof, wax-coated quartz Petri dish. “Heads up!” she shouted at Rock. He turned and caught the two tossed items.
“It’s not a liquid,” Flash announced over their earcomms. “It runs like a fluid, but once it’s pooled, it seems to harden. Otherwise the wind would cause ripples.”
Rock picked up a crushed soda can and tossed it into the pool. It bounced once, skidded across the reflective surface, then came to a rest. Within seconds, it softened and disappeared as if sinking into water.
“Fun stuff,” Flash muttered.
“It may seem solid, but look at this.” Rock lowered his head to allow the camera a view of the edge of the mysterious pool. Its shoreline advanced steadily toward him at a slow but perceptible pace.
“Maybe it’s a fluid with a high surface tension,” Leila offered.
“I just want to try scooping-”
“Do as he says, Rock.”
The voice behind him spoke in a deep, persuasive tone. Turning, he saw a wretched man in tattered, grimy clothes standing behind the police line. His face looked like a traffic accident, a swollen, red nose the most salient feature. The stranger stood, though, with an amazingly imposing posture. Fists on hips, he surveyed the scene through calm, intense eyes.
“You made it!” Leila shouted at the sound of his voice.
The newcomer nodded, his matted, dirty hair barely shaking with the motion. “Get away from that stuff, Rock. It’s too reactive.”
Rock knew better than to argue. Stepping backward over the thin vinyl barricade, he asked, “Plan is what, then?”
The tattered man surveyed the scene. “We’ll freeze that small puddle there”-his dirty hand pointed to where the paramedics had fallen-“and get a sample to analyze.”
He turned toward a black man in a white lab coat who had just arrived with several others. “Dr. Bhotamo,” he said cordially, “If we find that we need it, may we have the use of the Class Three isolation lab at Lawrence Livermore?”
The scientist eyed the filthy man up and down. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.
“I apologize.” The man in the dirty tweed jacket reached up to his weathered face and grasped the red, pocked nose. With a firm tug, he tore it off.
The nose ripped away from his face to reveal another one- thin, sharp, and healthy-beneath it. In quick motions he peeled away bits of latex, exposing smooth tan skin beneath the artifice. His left hand removed the matted wig. Shortly cropped, dark-copper hair shimmered in the sunlight. The disguise dropped to the ground. Reaching up with both hands, the transformed derelict deftly removed a pair of grey contact lenses. Eyes of dark green gazed at Dr. Bhotamo. He peeled the age-spotted and gnarled rubber appliances from his hands and offered his right to his fellow scientist. “Richard Anger,” he said in a resonant voice. “Anger Institute.” “Dr. Anger’s son?” Captain Anger smiled at the mention of his renowned father.