Tales of the Red Panda: The Android Assassins

by Gregg Taylor

  In this, the members of the committee were deeply mistaken. For the rich young man named August Fenwick was now little more than a thin character sketch, maintained to cover what the man seated in their midst now considered to be his true identity. August Fenwick was the Red Panda!

  Far from holding late hours at some nightclub, Fenwick had been awake most of the night running his investigation into the tragic turn of events of the night before. He had even considered skipping the committee meeting in favor of focusing on the return of their old foe Captain Clockwork, but in the end Kit had persuaded him to come. The men at the table thought he was lounging in his place, enjoying a cup of the Club Macaw's excellent coffee. They had no idea that he could follow every conversation at the table simultaneously, scouring each of them for any clue in the matter of this fiend who called himself the Viper. So intently was he engaged in this activity that he almost failed to notice when Chief O'Mally walked in the room, and it was only the sudden end of several of the conversations that drew his attention.

  “Well, O'Mally,” MacKinnon said crossly, “I'm pleased you could finally join us.”

  O'Mally looked flustered and went beet-red for a moment as he struggled for a reply. His defense came from an unexpected quarter.

  “I think that you will find, gentlemen, that Chief O'Mally has been engaged in the matter of the mechanical men much ballyhooed in the morning papers,” August Fenwick said lazily. “I should be very surprised to learn that he had slept, and the fact that he is in attendance here at all is a sure sign of the gravity with which he views this situation.”

  Apart from greeting his fellows upon arriving, these were the first words spoken by young Fenwick, and as such they left the table a little taken aback. But when they had dealt with their surprise, the men of the committee nodded gravely in agreement.

  Chief O'Mally looked gratefully at August Fenwick and took the remaining empty chair to Fenwick's right. He had little time or patience for this specimen under normal circumstances, but there was no doubt in O'Mally's mind that an angry response from the Chief to MacKinnon's rebuke would have helped nothing, and would have made what was to follow a great deal more difficult. He was a tough man, but fair, and he was prepared to give August Fenwick the benefit of the doubt.

  “Thank you, Mister Fenwick, and you happen to be right. For those of you unaware of the situation, eighteen people are dead and a hundred more injured after the most bizarre and unmotivated attack upon the citizenry that I can recall.” O'Mally was gruff but civil. “Of course, I continue to be concerned about this man who calls himself the Viper, but–”

  “There were twenty-nine killed on the New York Special,” Marcus Bennett said quietly but forcefully, cutting the Chief off.

  Gilbert MacKinnon, who seemed to have appointed himself chairman of the committee, took up the theme. “And, of course, there was a substantial loss of life when the Masterson tower collapsed, to say nothing of the fire at the Welles plant or the accidents suffered by Page's companies. Every one of those workers killed or maimed was also a citizen, Chief O'Mally, and every bit as deserving of your protection.”

  Chief O'Mally squirmed in his chair and said nothing.

  Ian James took up the thread. “I know that you look around this room and see a collection of wealthy men motivated by self-interest, O'Mally. And I know that the newspapers would not look kindly upon our concerns when there are men and women about the city living in fear of tin soldiers. But those journals are misguided, O'Mally. The companies and financial empires represented at this table by a few old men feed and clothe a great percentage of the ordinary people of Toronto. And many more are dependent upon those employees spending their paycheques for their own livelihoods.” James acknowledged the general grumble of agreement about the table and met Chief O'Mally's gaze with a cold stare. “I think that it is fair to say that a man who gained control of our combined operations would effectively own this city. And that the consequences for Toronto, should our companies be allowed to fail, would be as dire as the collapse of the stock market was.”

  O'Mally shook his head a little. “I'm sorry, Mister James, but are we really discussing that as a possibility?” he asked in disbelief.

  “That is exactly where we are,” Arthur Welles said frankly. “The damage to our main plant has meant we have lost a number of important contracts, along with our reputation for reliability that has served us well in signing new projects. Frankly, we are having more than a little difficulty with liquidity.”

  The Chief's brows knit at the unfamiliar term. August Fenwick saw this and answered O'Mally's unspoken question quietly. “The money required for day-to-day business, Chief,” he said.

  Stanley Church scowled. “The banks won't advance credit because they can't afford to take chances. They are hanging on by a thread themselves. Times are hard, Chief O'Mally, but if this 'Viper' succeeds, they will become a great deal harder, and not just for the men in this room. The whole city could be plunged into a chaos that would make your tin soldier problem pale in comparison.”

  “Or, as I say,” James insisted, “the city could fall completely under a single individual's control. That must be the Viper's plan.”

  O'Mally held up his hands. “Now, wait, please, Mister James. Gentlemen,” he said, “at the moment we have desperately little information on this man who calls himself the Viper. It seems certain that he was responsible for the destruction of Bennett's aircraft and the murder of the passengers and crew in the process. But as for his claims of responsibility for other recent misfortunes, we have no proof at all beyond an oblique reference in his threat note to Bennett.”

  Stanley Church brought his fist down upon the table, hard. “My company has never faced a disaster like the Masterson Tower. Never!” he thundered. “It is too much to be a coincidence!”

  “And yet it may be exactly that, Mister Church. There is no common thread between these accidents.” O'Mally was stern, but he was pleading for calm.

  “With respect, Chief O'Mally, that is not entirely true.”

  The room fell silent as every man turned in surprise towards August Fenwick, who let a sheepish half-smile creep across his face just for an instant. “Forgive me,” the billionaire said quietly, “but I have glanced at the summaries brought by Page and Welles, and have recalled newspaper stories of the other matters, and a thought occurs.”

  “Well?” O'Mally almost sighed.

  “In every case, access to the site of the disaster was restricted,” Fenwick began. “Only those trusted by the company, and themselves vulnerable to any mishap, were allowed near the key location. All were valued employees with long service. And in every case, the aftermath of the accident was so severe, that more than a few bodies could not be identified, and of some, no trace at all has been found.”

  “I say, Fenwick,” Arthur Welles said, “a bit morbid, don't you think?”

  “That all seems quite common,” Gilbert MacKinnon tried to steer the conversation away. Fenwick would have none of it.

  “Is it, gentlemen? I confess I am no kind of expert on the subject, but is it really that common for bodies to be completely obliterated? Common enough that when it happens four times in a row, it does not bear some thought?”

  Chief O'Mally drummed his fingers on the mahogany table slowly, as if lost in thought. “Well, I'll give you that, Mister Fenwick. It may mean something, though for the moment I cannot imagine just what. But it is… interesting.” He looked up and addressed the table at large. “Then we are all in agreement, gentlemen, about just how serious this threat to our city may be.” There was a general assent from the group. O'Mally continued, “Then I must remind you all of the need to share information, and not just after the fact, as we are today. Mister Bennett received a warning from this 'Viper', and chose to keep it to himself. The passengers of the New York Special paid a price for that secrecy.”

  Marcus Bennett turned ashen at this, but nodded grimly.

  O'Mally continue
d. “If some of your companies are as fragile as you suggest, then I must ask that you share information with this committee – not just when the Viper decides to make his intentions known, but before disaster strikes, so that we may know his likely targets and protect them.”

  Quincy Harrison raised his hand at this. “I don't know if this is relevant, Chief O'Mally,” the little man said, “but my company is demonstrating our new armored transport in just a few days at our testing ground. It is a device long in development, and I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that much of my company's immediate future depends upon its success.” Harrison appeared very sheepish at this. “If the Viper truly wished to do my company harm, it would be a very tempting target.”

  “Excellent, Harrison!” boomed Chief O'Mally. “Who else knows about this?”

  “No more than a handful of senior managers. We have been concerned about security, so most of our employees will only learn of the tests on the day they are to happen and our dignitaries think they are coming to town for a budget meeting.”

  “Well done, Mister Harrison, well done indeed,” O'Mally beamed. “You will have the full support of my police force, and if this 'Viper' does strike again, we will have him right where we want him!”

  Six

  Tank Brody's legs churned as fast as they could carry his substantial frame through the crowd racing along the street. Behind him he could hear the cries of men and women who had been unable to keep pace and had fallen into the clutches of the mechanical monsters that pursued them. He raced on, a small girl in his arms whom he had plucked from the street, terrified at the scene of horror that surrounded her. Brody only knew one mission now. He must get that girl to safety, and the crowd of panicked citizens for whom he had become de facto leader in the last ten minutes.

  Two hours ago, it had all been so much simpler. After the events of a few days earlier, Tank had continued to work out at Spiro's gym, making enough small progress for the old man to keep him coming around. Brody's natural disinclination towards violence had been overridden by his curiosity about his fellow boxers' activities and his need to learn more.

  If anything, Spiro Pappas had been far too pleased with the change in his star pupil's attitude to notice anything untoward. Brody arrived early and stayed late, and seemed to take a greater interest in everything about the gym than he had before. What Spiro did not realize was that the big man was keeping a close eye out for Andy Parker, Mac Tully or any of the other men he had seen leave with them the other night. The men who had somehow known about the attack on innocent people even before the police did, who had fought tooth and nail to protect those same people, and who seemed to take orders from that remarkable masked man whom Brody had glimpsed at a distance.

  Brody had managed to learn a thing or two about him too, though just how much of it was true, he couldn't begin to say. Brody had drifted to Toronto from the west – his decline in fortunes had carried him across the prairies and into the heart of the great, lost city like so many others who had been stripped of everything but hope by these dark times. He knew few people in Toronto, and even less about its lore. But when he began to quietly ask around, it seemed that Tank Brody was the only man in town who didn't have something to say on the subject of the Red Panda, the city's mysterious guardian. But most of what was said seemed too preposterous to be true.

  All manner of heroic deeds were attributed to the man. They said the Red Panda had shut down the city's gangs time and time again and that he protected the man in the street from threats as small as a cutthroat in an alley with a knife to the efforts of self-styled “supervillains,” a word Brody had never even heard before. He was purported to have superhuman strength, to be a creature of the shadows, impossible to kill or even find. Some said that he possessed eerie powers of the mind, or the skills to walk up walls or fly, while others claimed that he was just a man with a singular drive for justice and an unshakable will.

  All who spoke of the mystery man mentioned the fearless female who fought at his side, the Flying Squirrel. If Tank Brody was tempted to dismiss any of their claims about this remarkable duo, the evidence from his own eyes forbade him to do so, as he himself had seen the unmistakably female form in grey sailing through the night air above the fray. Whomever these two fighters might be, whatever their connection to his boxing trainer and the men at his gym, they seemed to be able to help those whom no one else could. And some note within that dreadful sonata of danger was music to Tank Brody's lost soul. He had to learn more, even at risk of his own life.

  Brody had not had long to wait. Two nights after the first attack by those terrible tin men, Brody had witnessed a process similar to what had happened the other night. Spiro was called away to a telephone behind the desk, a telephone with a different ring from the line that jangled all day. Brody never would have recognized the difference had he not been listening for it, but now that he was, it seemed unmistakable. He watched through the corner of his eye as the old man listened to the message, and replied with no more than a few words. At once, he made an innocent looking gesture with his left hand and three men left what they were doing around the room to speak to him.

  Brody looked around the hall. No one else seemed to have noticed a thing. If you didn't happen to be looking for it, everything seemed casual and natural. He looked at the men. Parker and Tully were absent, but two of those now present had left with them the other night, of that Brody was certain. He could not say for sure, but the third man speaking to Spiro looked like one of the reinforcements who had arrived partway through the past evening's battle, though of that Brody was less sure. Moments later, the men were assembling their gear and Pappas was on the telephone making calls, perhaps to other men not present. No one noticed when Tank Brody followed the men out of the hall and watched them jump into a taxicab.

  Brody had little to spare for frills like taxi rides, but in this case he was prepared to make a big exception, and he ordered his driver to follow the cab which carried the three men into what Brody was certain would be another battle against the mechanical marvels.

  As the cab approached the once-quiet neighborhood on Dundas, south of the University, Brody could see at once that he was right. Already people were racing through the streets in a panic, and the twilight was bruised by the rough crimson of fires burning ahead. His taxi driver refused to carry him further, and seemed only too glad when his burly passenger raced from the cab and set off into the night on foot.

  Tank Brody never caught up to the men from the gym, but all around him were people badly in need of aid. Shops had been destroyed, buildings were burning, cars overturned, and from every direction there seemed to come cries for help. The mechanical men were back, though without the gaudy tin-soldier paint jobs of the other night. They were tall, man-like metal forms, devoid of markings or adornment beyond the red glow of their fearsome eyes, and they seemed to be everywhere.

  Brody could see that some of the creatures had long, metal appendages in place of hands, which they flailed ahead of them like whips, burning everything they struck with an electrical charge. The monsters had formed a solid cordon, blocking access to the main streets and forcing their panicked victims deeper into the maze of narrow alleys which had made up, just hours before, a peaceful neighborhood. It was clear that the machines intended to drive them like cattle, but fighting them seemed impossible and there was little to do but run. Brody quickly found that people gravitated to him, almost expecting him to be able to protect them. But if there was anything he could do but keep them together, keep them moving and run for their lives, he could not imagine what it might be.

  Brody could hear the clanking and whirring of the terrible machines and knew that they had been discovered again. He shouted for the others to keep running, not to give up, and barreled on.

  Suddenly he heard a man's voice cry out from behind him. “Look! Up there!” The voice carried an impossible note of hope, and Tank Brody could not resist the urge to look up. There were mor
e cries from all around as the men and women saw what he did. Standing atop a street lamp, high above, was a tall man in a long, grey coat and matching suit, perched impossibly as he hurried to affix some strange device to the top of the pole with his red-gauntleted hands. The man turned to face the people below as they stopped running to gaze at him, and his eyes lighted upon Brody, towering above the others with the young girl in his arms. The eyes within the crimson mask were blank whites and they burned with a fire that Brody had never before seen, and he gasped a little in spite of himself. It was the legend himself. Tank had found the Red Panda.

  “Keep them moving!” the man shouted in a voice like thunder, and something deep within Tank Brody found it impossible not to obey. “Keep moving south, the way is still clear.” The Red Panda struggled to pull up a retractable antenna atop the device.

  Suddenly another voice rang from high above. It was the girl in grey, executing another heart-stopping aerial maneuver as she called out to them. “Three blocks, then head east. You should hit the main drag all right if we can hold them off.” And with that, she landed on a ledge across the street and began to work on a matching device of her own.