Tales of the Red Panda: The Mind Master

by Gregg Taylor

  It was on this last point that the gossips on the front stoops were dead wrong. Kit smiled as she walked past, thinking how little they could possibly dream the truth. That her millionaire playboy Boss was, in fact, the masked man of mystery known only as the Red Panda. That far from living a dissolute and directionless life, spoiled by his massive family fortune, he had directed all of his energies into becoming crime’s greatest foe, and the honest citizen’s greatest friend.

  And what the gaggle from the old neighborhood could never possibly guess was that she, Kit Baxter, whom they had known all her life, fought at his side as that fearless fighting female: the Flying Squirrel. That the two of them, together, though still branded as outlaws, had done more real good for the city and the most desperate of its people than most could ever hope to do in a hundred lifetimes.

  Kit Baxter bit her lip a little as she thought of it. Thought of him. The old girls on the porches were right about that much. But she kept her feelings under wraps as much as possible, and so far her Boss didn’t seem to have noticed. Times like this, when she had a rare evening off and was in no danger of being close enough to him to make a slip, were the only times she really let herself think about it.

  And that was what put the skip in Kit Baxter’s step as she made her way home from the pictures. The situation might be completely impossible, but they shared both a secret and a life of adventure, and she was the only person who really knew him, not the ridiculous mask of a man that he pretended to be. That was more than she ought to have been able to hope for and it would have to do.

  Kit wore an oversize tweed cap, with a shock of red hair pushed up into it without a great deal of care. She wore pants and a long coat with her hands pushed in the pockets, but still the figure that she cut was anything but mannish. She tried to buy an apple from a greengrocer that was packing up for the evening, but he refused to take her money. He only smiled and held his own cap over his heart with a pantomime sigh and a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure that his wife hadn’t seen the gesture. Kit laughed and pocketed the apple as she took the steps of her building two at a time. She was almost at the front door when she heard the newsie’s voice, crying from down the block,

  “Extra! Extra! Empire Bank Heist nets untold fortune!”

  And then another from the opposite direction,

  “Chronicle Extra! Police baffled by Empire Bank caper!”

  And then still more, from everywhere, their voices too far away to be distinct, but their urgency was unmistakable. Soon there would be a paper amongst every cluster of neighbors on every stoop. Kit Baxter preferred to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

  She threw the main door of the building open and raced up the three flights to her apartment. She locked the door behind her and turned the radio on softly, just enough that it might seem like there was someone there, should anyone be listening, but not enough to attract attention should she not return to shut it off for several days.

  Like a flash, she was at the far end of the apartment, sliding open the window in the little sitting room at the end of a narrow hall. The fire escape was on the other side of the building, and a quick glance confirmed there were no eyes on her. She stepped out onto the narrow ledge and slid the window closed behind her. The jump to the rooftop next door was only a few feet across a very narrow alleyway, but even three flights up, it was more than enough to give most people pause. Kit Baxter was not most people.

  She hopped the gap and raced over two rooftops before she reached the next gap. This was a similar jump onto an escape ladder that hung from the building at the end of the street. Kit made the leap easily, secure in the cover of darkness, as little light from the streetlamps spilled this high. She climbed the escape ladder up two stories until she reached another window, which she slid open and shimmied through in seconds flat.

  She found herself in a long, narrow hallway of offices, none of which appeared to have been rented in many a day. At the end of the hallway was a door that read, “T. Conroy. Investments.” The door did not appear to have been touched in months, and Kit did not disturb the doorknob now. She opened a panel beside the door which would have never been visible to one who did not know it was there, and turned a key in a sophisticated mechanism which seemed completely out of place in these surroundings.

  Suddenly, silently, the entire door frame slid back into the wall itself, just far enough and long enough for Kit’s slender form to slip through before the mechanism swung shut behind her. A touch of another panel revealed the object that had set her on this wild chase above the streets: the entrance of a long, clear tube, constructed of an unknown material of extraordinary resilience. It ran from floor to ceiling, and was easily three feet wide. She touched the smooth, cold surface and a section of the wall of the tube opened up to admit her. Just before the panel in the office wall closed behind her, plunging the hidden tube into darkness, the floor opened up beneath her feet and Kit Baxter disappeared in an instant.

  She tried, at first, to contain her cries of delight at the ride. There were few people in the world who could stomach speeding through the darkness beneath the city in a giant pneumatic tube, riding a carefully engineered tide of compressed air at tremendous velocity. There were even fewer people who would find it fun. The burbles of wild laughter that escaped the girl’s lips as she rode made it clear that she was the exception.

  She braced herself momentarily, knowing that there was a jarring bump ahead where this new section of tube joined the main downtown line. He had been apologetic about it, of course, but getting such a thing built in the first place was a major undertaking, to say nothing of the dozens of workmen whose memories he had to alter through hypnosis. She wasn’t about to complain. He had said that he wanted to build an entrance to their top-secret underground lair that was closer to her home so that she could lead a slightly more normal life – to take more time away. But she knew the truth. He built the tube to bring her back to him faster.

  She felt the pressure slacken, the rolling tide of air gathering at her feet to slow her approach, and knew that she was almost there. Her feet touched solid ground and with one motion, she threw the tube open and raced down the five steps from the platform. She was in a large room, deep underground and illuminated from high above. There were a half dozen identical tubes around the walls and dozens more extraordinary devices unknown to the scientific world at large. Each was remarkable and worthy of study, but Kit Baxter had seen them in action, and of all the remarkable sights before her, she only had eyes for one.

  He sat in an old wooden chair that he had pulled into the centre of the room, with his left leg crossed over his right. His face was hidden by a special edition of the Toronto Chronicle with a headline that blazed in oversize letters,

  “EMPIRE BANK ROBBED!”

  She almost tripped over her feet as she came to a sudden halt. A corner of the newspaper peeled back to reveal a red mask and a wry smile.

  “What kept you?” the Red Panda asked.

  Four

  Nepal: 1928

  The wind that swept across the jagged hills was bitterly cold, but to the ragged young man who approached the kuti, it seemed like a blessing. He had just crossed the Annapurna Ridge, one of the highest and most foreboding places on Earth, to reach this spot, nestled as it was in the bosom of a tiny valley. He tried very hard not to think about the fact that he would have to cross it again to get out.

  He pulled the thin air deep into his lungs as he gazed at the mountain tops around him. He had been told that Annapurna meant “Goddess of the Harvests.” He could only imagine that they had been named by those who dwelt far below to whom the spring thaw would bring precious new life, not by those that eked out such an existence as was possible in this desolation. And yet still it seemed to him to be the most beautiful place that ever was, or ever could be. The young man who stumbled on towards the mud hut was, like most who walked this path, on a great quest. Unlike most, this valley was not the end of that quest, b
ut merely a step upon a long journey. He was tall and taut, muscular and lean. Few that had been born into the life of leisure and privilege to which he had could have ever summoned the will to cross that mountain pass.

  For a man is shaped by the forces around him. Those born into great wealth are rarely gifted with the drive to do more than spend that wealth on their own luxury or vanity. Those whom fate has shielded from all fear or pain are seldom able to see it in others. But, as is so often the case, when an exception rears its head, it cannot help but run to the opposite extreme.

  August Fenwick’s quest came from a burning need for justice. Justice for those who could never know the comfort or security that he had always enjoyed. Protection for those who could not protect themselves. And redemption for the Fenwick bloodline, whom he had judged to be guilty of a long history of wrongs in the name of the great God, Money.

  But where to begin? He could, living the much-observed life of a wealthy family’s only son, study only so much before those around him took note. Inventing and criminology were not normal pursuits for a man of his status, he had been told in no uncertain terms. And so he did what any brash young fool might do in his circumstances – he ran away with the circus.

  His parents had thought he was on the typical Dissolute Gad-About’s tour of Europe, when in reality he had adopted a disguise and was himself adopted by a family of traveling acrobats. He had proved to be a star pupil as he absorbed their techniques, their fearlessness, their discipline. To the thrill of the crowds, he soared high above where most men would dare to be, and in time learned to love the taste of fear.

  From time to time he would leave the circus as they traveled to a city where a great expert lived – a detective, a martial arts master, anyone whose skills he would need in the life’s work he was creating for himself. Then, by deceit, by imploring or by outright bribery, he would study under them for as long as seemed valuable, always disguised, always under a new identity.

  In time, word had reached him that his father was commanding him home, and he left the circus for good. The elder Fenwick had expected his only son to be ready to assume a mantle of respectability, to carry on the family name with dignity.

  “After all, my son, I won’t live forever,” he had said, with the smile of a man who does not really believe that in his heart.

  It had taken a great deal of persuasion in order to be loosed upon the world again. After all, his father yet held the purse strings, and the next phase of his mission would be an expensive one. But soon enough, he had departed for the Orient. The need for papers and passports made it more difficult to hide his identity, but a smile and a bribe can do wonders if the bribe is large enough.

  In Japan, in China and throughout the sub-continent, young August studied under the greatest masters in the many arts of combat. He learned of ancient devices and techniques, and learned to adapt them with his considerable mechanical skill. He knew that in order to succeed in his mission, even for a time, he must be able to do more than seemed possible for any mortal man. But as he traveled he heard of even greater powers, long lost to the modern world, which were still practiced by a handful of faithful disciples.

  His travels brought him through India, where he absorbed many secrets, but always the true power that would aid him in his fight for justice seemed just out of reach. At last he had heard of a teacher, a Saddhu, in the high steppes of Nepal that had knowledge such as that he sought. A holy man who seemed to know the innermost workings of the mind as no man ever had.

  He was, in every other respect, prepared, in mind and body. He considered himself ready to take the final step. Ready to return to the city that had been his home, and would become his battleground. To fight and, in all probability, to die for what he believed. Fenwick had sent a final cable back to Toronto through one of his father’s companies, informing those at home of his intention to see the high country before returning at last, and set off the next day without waiting for a reply.

  It had taken longer than he had thought to reach this far, and as a small, wiry man with a long black robe wrapped around him like a tunic came to the door of the kuti, he hoped that it was only the beginning.

  “Greetings,” he said in a halting mutilation of the local dialect. “I am one who comes to you in order… of you finding of that which hides… darkness which rides far before him…”

  “You were doing all right for a moment there,” said the Saddhu in perfect English, “but you lost me somewhere around the riding darkness. Actually, everything after ‘greetings’ was kind of a mess.”

  The young man stared at the mystic, blinking in astonishment.

  “Sorry,” said the Saddhu with a twinkle in his eye, “I didn’t mean to break your rhythm.”

  The young man recovered. “I was just trying to think of something to say other than ‘you speak English’, which seemed a little obvious. Forgive me for being so surprised.”

  The Saddhu shrugged. “It is a common reaction. Some people seem to feel I would have more to teach them if I knew nothing of the world beyond these mountains.”

  “You are here because you choose to be,” the young man replied. “So am I. Who am I to judge?”

  The mystic seemed amused, but not displeased. “You have studied well to be so versed in the fine art of double talk. You are an American?”

  “Canadian,” came the reply.

  “Ah,” said the old man, looking at his guest with a hard squint as if trying to tell the difference. “You have traveled hard and far. I hope it was for a reason.”

  “It is said in many places that the Saddhu of this valley knows much that is hidden or lost. That you understand the ancient secrets of the human mind. The arts that we in the West might call Hypnosis.” The young man’s eyes seemed to blaze.

  “They say a great deal. Some of it happens to be true,” came the reply.

  “I wish to study. To learn what you know.”

  The old man seemed genuinely amused by this. “That is no small task, young one. I think perhaps you would not have patience for that. In time, as I come to learn your desires, I can shape your training accordingly.”

  “Then you will teach me?” the young man said eagerly.

  “You can pay?” The old man raised an eyebrow. When his guest nodded he continued, “Forgive me if that seems crass. I think you will find I am not much of an orthodox Saddhu. It is just possible that I was corrupted by the West. But that corruption also allows me to see the ancient techniques for what they are. A true science of the mind.” He crossed to his young guest and extended a hand. “What is your name, son?”

  There was an instant of hesitation. “There would be little point in lying to one to whom the secrets of the mind are an open book,” the young man said.

  “It is true,” the Saddhu smiled.

  “But a secret is not a lie.”

  The old man nodded. “Sometimes a secret is the most true thing there is. Very well then. For the moment, I will call you Two.”

  The young man’s brow furrowed. “Why ‘Two’?” he asked.

  “Because,” the old man waved an arm towards the kuti, “I already have one student.”

  The man now called “Two” looked up and saw that it was true. Another man, perhaps three or four years his senior, stood in the doorway, his face an impassive mask. His complexion was dark, his eyes predatory, but it was difficult to tell his ethnicity.

  “Come meet your fellow initiate,” the old man said. “This is–”

  “My name is unimportant,” the student said.

  The Saddhu seemed surprised. “It is?” he said.

  The eyes of the two students locked. The elder spoke with a wry smile. “Secrets are important,” he said.

  “When did this happen?” The old man seemed frustrated.

  His pupil shrugged. “Just now.”

  The Saddhu threw his hands in the air. “Fine. Have it your way. One, meet Two. Two, this is One.” He pushed past them into the kuti. “My name is R
ashan. But you can call me Master.”

  Five

  The sleek black car pushed forward through the city streets at tremendous velocity. The powerful engine hummed like a contented animal as Kit Baxter’s foot forced its way closer to the floorboards. She bounced a little in the seat in spite of herself. The Red Panda preferred to approach their prey by stealth, and the point was tough to argue. But when he had a perfectly good experimental roadster at his disposal, to say nothing of a speed-happy driver for a partner, sometimes the pneumatic tubes didn’t seem quite as exciting as all that.

  She kept her eyes locked on the road ahead as she weaved through the traffic and past startled onlookers, who had made a late night of it and were rewarded with a fleeting glimpse of the city’s masked crime-fighters for their trouble. She knew that in the passenger seat he was fiddling with one of his electric gizmos, but she was waiting to see how long he could possibly resist showing off by explaining what he was doing. So far he had maintained his focus for two stops, miles apart, after each of which he had scribbled some notations and announced the next stop on their high-speed pursuit of who-knew-what.

  “Up here,” he said, glancing up from the dials of his device at last.

  “Yes, Boss,” she smiled, pulling into a convenient alleyway and putting the high-powered braking systems to the test with the sudden stop.

  “That was dramatic,” he said with a raised eyebrow and a sidelong smirk.

  “Yes, Boss,” the Flying Squirrel batted her eyelashes under her cowl. “Fun, too.”