Paranormals (Book 1)

by Christopher Andrews

  Alan’s face paled as he listened to the dangers that even he had not previously considered.

  Steve, on the other hand, was unfazed. "I thought about all of that, Ardette. I admit that part of it is for the panache. I mean, one of the main reasons I’m doing this is to fill that super-hero role, to hopefully appeal to the imaginations of all kids, and maybe a few ‘grown-ups,’ too. I’m trying to show that it’s cool to be a good guy, not a rogue. But I did design the cape so that it’s drawn back, flowing off the shoulders instead of around them — it’s a cape, not a cloak."

  "I’m still waiting to hear any advantages, Steve," Alan pointed out, worried.

  Steve bit back a sigh and listed, "If I do pull the cape around me, the fact that it’s black will help camouflage me at night. Also, I have to see a target in order to use my weapons, and I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. The cape is made of the same material as the suit — if someone tries to blind-side me, I’ll have double protection on my entire backside, from my neck down to my knees. The mask is double-thick, too, everywhere except where I have to breathe through it, so my skull also has double protection."

  Alan relaxed a bit, and Ardette nodded. "I see you have thought about this."

  Steve also nodded. "As I’ve told Alan, this isn’t just a flight of fancy. I’m very serious about this — it’s important to me. I’m trying..." He swallowed, then continued. "No matter what eventually happens with McLane, I’m trying to make sure that something good comes out of this nightmare."

  Ardette cocked her head to one side. "Does this change your views of McLane and what he’s done?"

  Steve blinked in surprise, then recoiled in rising anger. "No! Why in the world would it?!"

  "Because," Ardette insisted, "it sounds to me like you’re going to try for the best of both worlds."

  "I don’t follow you," Steve steamed, still confused and offended by her remarks.

  "Look, I can see where you’re going with this. I even admire your conviction. But ... you’re human, Steve, and as such, I imagine that you’ve been planning to deal with McLane with ... for argument’s sake, let’s just call it ‘extreme prejudice.’ Am I right?"

  Steve didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

  "Now you’re talking about creating an icon, a role-model for potential and existing paranormals everywhere. If that’s truly the case, then I submit that you must be willing to deal with McLane in a much more noble manner than you’ve previously intended. Either that, or leave the costume at home that day. You can’t have it both ways."

  Steve sat in silence, clearly mulling over this hearty food-for-thought ...

  She’s right, Stevey.

  Shut up. She’s ... she’s taking it to an extreme—

  She’s taking it to an extreme? You’re the one running around in colored long-johns.

  That’s not fair! I ... I’ve read comic books, too. There are plenty of heroes who are willing to—

  Yes, but you’re not looking to create a "spirit of vengeance" here, are you? You’re talking about a True American Hero, and all that entails. What’s the point in dressing up like a superman if you’re going to behave like a punisher? Right? Right?!

  I ...

  You can’t have it both ways, Steve.

  When at last he spoke, Steve’s voice was a choked whisper. "I ... I’ll have to think about this ... later ..."

  Alan and Ardette were filled with sympathy. Steve averted his gaze, lest his emotions swell completely out of his control. Now determined to change the subject, Ardette asked, "I don’t suppose you’d like to explain that spiral you plastered on your chest?"

  Steve looked at her in surprise, then chuckled in spite of himself. "Well, uh ... it’s kinda funny, really. I know that the vortex just makes a kind of blurry ripple in the air ... from an outside perspective. But you have to remember that I’m seeing it straight down the middle, like looking through the funnel of a tornado."

  "Interesting," Alan commented.

  "But that’s just it — it’s not like a funnel. Not really. It’s more ... psychedelic than that. Have you ever looked through the center of a Slinky when it’s stretched out?"

  "A Slinky? You mean the toy?"

  "Yeah. I had one when I was little. And not one of those dorky plastic ones, either — I had a real metal one. If you ever happen upon one, stretch it out, shake it, and look through it. That’s what looking through the vortex wave is kind of like. The symbol on my chest is just an attempt to draw a concrete image of something that’s in constant motion."

  "Which explains the cockeyed center and half-moon gap," Ardette concluded.

  Steve shrugged and smiled. Now it was his turn to change the subject, back to business. "Alan, have you figured out what the rogues might have been after?"

  "Nothing solid, but I have some suspicions. You see, there really wasn’t anything of value in that warehouse, but it hasn’t always been used for storage. Some of our most important R-and-D for the PCA used to take place there. In fact, the change was fairly recent ... after McLane was fired."

  Steve’s jaw clenched. Ardette fumed, "That bastard comes up once again. So it was him."

  Alan grunted. "That’s what I think. I can’t prove it, of course—"

  A sudden epiphany struck Steve. "The vortex wave..."

  They glanced toward him.

  In a rush, Steve asked Alan, "You said that McLane was not involved in the development of the vortex wave, right?"

  "That’s correct," Ardette answered for him — there was a new fire in her eyes that had not been there until now. All talk of handling McLane with "nobility" had, for the moment, flown out the window. "The PCA requires us to isolate different projects, to minimize information loss in the event of outside infiltration, whether it’s classic industrial espionage or a shape-shifting or telepathic rogue."

  "And McLane would have known this is how it worked?"

  "You bet your ass," she replied, evoking a blink of surprise from Alan. "That son of a bitch is probably trying to find out what else we’ve been working on without his knowledge."

  Alan slowly sat up straight. "Then it’s a safe bet they’ll be coming back."

  The three sat silently for nearly a minute, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Ardette announced, "Steve, whatever you decide to do ... if you need my help, you just let me know. I am definitely in."

  TAKAYASU AND SHOCKWAVE

  Bearing the weight of an exceptionally long day upon his shoulders, Michael trudged down the hallway toward his apartment. Brase had been in top form this afternoon. Given that Michael wasn’t yet prepared to share his assorted suspicions about Steve Davison’s involvement with the vigilante, Vortex, Brase had made quite clear his opinion of what he perceived as "zero progress." They had a few leads on one of McLane’s possible hideouts, but that was about it.

  If nothing else, he was gratified that his friendship with Mark was growing stronger all the time. It must have been very tempting for Mark to throw their suspicions in Brase’s face just to show him up ... and probably mouth off like the good ol’ days to boot. But Mark had respected Michael’s silence and endured.

  As he finally plodded up to his apartment, he was alarmed that his key turned without resistance. Either he’d forgotten to lock the door that morning, or someone had unlocked it since then.

  Drawing his tazer, he opened the door very slowly. He hesitated a moment longer, pulled a psi-band from an inner coat pocket and slipped it onto his forehead, then stepped inside.

  Whoever the intruder was, they were rummaging around the kitchen. They were obviously making no efforts to conceal their presence, and Michael relaxed a bit. He was pretty sure who it was now, and a smile crept over his face. He lowered the tazer ... but didn’t holster it just yet.

  Christine jumped slightly when she saw him, then answered his smile with one of her own as she dropped pasta into a pot of water. "Hey, there. Nice headband."

  Michael holstered his sidearm ... and,
a moment later, turned off his pager ...

  PCA

  "I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me how the hell you got in here?"

  Christine pursed her lips, a devilish twinkle in her eye. "Now, Ensign Takayasu, I just shared my secret family recipe for Pasta a la White. You don’t expect a woman to give away all of her secrets, do you?"

  Had anyone else tried that line on him, Michael would have dismissed it as an evasion and pressed the issue. Coming from this sweetheart, however, he was more willing to let it pass. He simply filed it away as something to pursue at a later time and resolved to enjoy the evening as it was progressing.

  Besides, the pasta was delicious.

  "So ... do you want to tell me about your day? Setting aside the funky headband, you didn’t look too hot when you walked in here."

  Michael sighed and leaned forward, forking another mouthful as he did so. Chewing quickly, he asked, "You don’t mind if I talk shop?"

  "Not at all," she beamed. "I would ... except nothing interesting ever happens at the café."

  Michael chortled, sipped his wine, and began, "You remember my telling you about Steve Davison?"

  "The guy who lost his family, right? The guy who you think might be going after the killer himself?"

  "Same guy. Anyway, our commander’s been busting our balls about that case all day."

  "No leads, huh?"

  "A couple, even one or two about a possible base-of-operations for Richard McLane’s little coterie. We’re still checking them out, but it’s taking longer than I’d hoped. The whole agency’s a little overtaxed right now."

  " ‘Overtaxed?’ " Christine echoed as she finished off the last of her own wine and poured herself another glass.

  "A lot of stuff’s been going on over the last couple of days. An unusually large number of rogue-related crimes, with an ungodly percentage of Class Ones involved."

  "Oh, my gosh," she whispered. Looking a little concerned, she asked, "Have you been called into any fights yourself?"

  "No, not yet, not since the bank robbery. Mark and I were called to Davison Electronics over a recent incident, but that ... well, that’s a long story, but let’s just say it turned out more confusing than dangerous."

  Satisfied that he hadn’t been placed in recent peril, Christine relaxed and topped off his wine. She also scooted her chair a little closer to his so that their legs were touching under the table. "What’s the PCA going to do about all the rogues?"

  In light of the new seating arrangements, Michael almost missed her question. "Uh ... well, since a lot of them have been in this district, Captain Jarrah’s called for a paranormal synod."

  "A what?"

  "A synod. Basically a convention of paranormal agents working for the PCA. In fact, I’ll be meeting up with them tomorrow morning at eight o’clock at our headquar—ack!" He jumped, then immediately felt embarrassed for doing so. Trying to recover some smattering of his cool, he remarked, "You know, Christine..."

  "Yes?" she purred coyly.

  "If your hand goes any higher, I’m gonna choke on my next bite of Pasta a la White."

  "Then you’d better put your fork down."

  He put his fork down ...

  PCA

  Lounging on his couch in front of the television, Mark drained the last swig of beer and emitted a raucous belch that echoed throughout his den. He lived alone, so it wasn’t like there was anyone to offend ... and that wouldn’t have curbed his behavior even if there had been. He was sort of watching his P’s and Q’s at work these days, especially since he finally had a partner he could respect, but right now he wasn’t Shockwave — he was Mark Westmore, and his manners were his to mind as he saw fit.

  All of this made perfect sense to him ... so he found it particularly annoying that he experienced a wave of self-consciousness anyway.

  The kid was to blame, of that much he was certain. Ever since winning him over, Mike Takayasu had been influencing him in ways even his short stint in the Army had not managed. For the first time in God only knew how long, he was actually starting to care about stuff again. Maybe it was the fact that Mike treated him with dignity, something his self-esteem had almost forgotten existed.

  When he woke up one morning to find that he’d gone paranormal, his first impulse had been to lash out at the world for all the injustice it had thrown in his face throughout his life. First he’d flunked out of school because he wasn’t smart enough to perform math beyond two-plus-two. Then he’d "escaped" into the Army and found himself confronted with a homosexual CO who wouldn’t take "no" for an answer — but when he’d defended himself the only way he knew how, did the higher-ups care why he’d broken his CO’s nose? Of course not. They wouldn’t even listen to his side of the story.

  So he found himself tossed out on his ass, back into the cold world, just one more ... how had Brase put it? ... one more trailer park rat with no education and a Dishonorable Discharge to boot.

  So there he was, some fifteen years later, living in a half-way house because he had no place else to go, and he discovered that he could knock things over just by thinking about it. At first he thought the Paranormal Effect had blessed him with telekinesis, but he quickly figured out that he couldn’t grab stuff, just push it — if telekinesis was a scalpel, he’d been given a broadsword.

  This is it, he’d thought. Payback time!

  But did he go out and rob a bank? Or hold some tall building ransom? Or even find his old CO and crush him to a pulp?

  No. He’d just sat there in his dirty little room and wondered if perhaps the best revenge was not bloodshed ... but success.

  Since his father first spat in his face, everyone in his life had been telling him, in one way or another, that he was worthless. Wouldn’t it just kill them if he suddenly became an individual of unquestionable value? Rogues were already a dime-a-dozen by then, but the PCA was just getting rolling and in desperate need of paranormal help.

  So Mark Westmore became one of the first, and definitely the most physically powerful, freaks to throw in with the Agency.

  But he did make them pay for it, all right. They needed him, and he knew it. So, if anything, he began playing up the obnoxious-asshole bit for all it was worth. Oh, he’d never exactly been overflowing with class, that was for sure ... but now he took perverse pleasure in really laying it on nice and thick. And it was like Fate had finally decided to take his side, because even as there were a few occasions when he’d almost pushed his luck too far, his paranormal gifts also increased over time, both in power and finesse. It quickly got to the point where the PCA not only couldn’t afford to lose him, but they really didn’t want him switching over to the opposing team. Basically, he had them over the barrel.

  Then Ensign Takayasu came along, and everything changed again. Mike clearly saw through his hard-shell act right from the start ... and yet he still treated him with decency. He’d even taken up for him right to Brase’s face, and to Mark that was no small gesture. Going head-to-head with the district commander wasn’t the best way to start a career in the agency, but Mike had done it anyway. Done it for him ...

  A deep yawn suddenly rushed through Mark, surprising him and making him realize just how tired he really was. He glanced at his watch and figured that he just might go to bed a little earlier than usual. There wasn’t anything interesting on TV, which is how he ended up watching Showtime’s latest T-&-A flick, "Red Panty Diaries 20," or whatever the hell it was called. Then again, he could keep it on a little while longer and put himself to sleep—

  The window burst inward, showering him with glass. Startled, he staggered to his feet just as a roughly-humanoid figure bounded through the opening and snapped him in the face. And it was a snap, not a hit or a kick — it felt for all the world as though he’d been popped with the world’s largest rubberband. The skin on his cheek split at the point of contact and the surrounding tissue instantly began to welt.

  Rolling with the bizarre blow as best he could, he grit
ted his teeth against the pain and struck back, drilling a double-fisted shockwave into his assailant’s midsection. His attacker contorted and elongated where the wave hit home, affected by the assault but clearly able to endure it far better than a solid recipient. Mark concentrated, planning to catch the — man? woman? who cares? — in a cross-wave. Then he’d see just how far his little friend could stretch before reaching the limit of—

  A flash of light pulsed through the room. Mark caught a reflection of it in the television screen, and his limbs stiffened.

  Oh, shit!

  He tried to throw his arms up to cover his eyes, but even closing them was taking a frightening effort. He prepared to fire off a shockwave at random, to take out the whole apartment if that’s what he had to do ...